Despite Our Imperfections
by Immortal x Snow
Summary: Family: it stands for "forget about me: I love you." They struggled sometimes with the first part, but the second part? They had that down perfectly. 100 Fics Challenge for the FACE Family.
1. Beginnings

Okay, guys. Things are about to get real. I'm taking on the (in)famous, arduous 100 Fics Challenge for the FACE Family! What does this involve, you ask?

Oh, nothing, just writing 100 fics focusing on France, America, Canada, and/or England, each with its own designated theme.

...Yeah, I don't know what I'm doing, either.

Anyway, here's the first fic, which is **Canada-centric with some France and England.** The prompt is **beginnings.**

* * *

_"The choice he made he could not comprehend, / His blood a grim secret they had to command. / He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life: / He prayed for both but was denied."_

_("Hand of Sorrow," Within Temptation)_

Nations: entities with their lives ever in flux, constantly changing—endings divorced from beginnings, with everything in between scattered in a chaotic harmony. Nothing ever lasted.

Even as a child, Canada could recognize this confusing, disillusioning reality. Although he could not grasp the idea itself, he certainly felt its effects that chilly February morning in 1763. At only six o' clock in the morning, so early the sun had not yet shown signs of rising and the moon still shone brightly in the sky, the young nation was wide awake (had he even slept at all last night?). Clutching his pillow so hard that he thought his arms might go numb, he pressed his ear to the door of his bedroom and winced at the sound of loud, strained voices.

"You said you didn't care about him! This is part of the agreement. I'll be taking care of him now, and doing a better job than you ever could."

"I never said I didn't care. Only that since _you _forced this choice on me…"

"France. Give him up."

An indignant snort came in reply.

Canada waited, dreading whatever might come next. He knew the words would hurt, no matter what they were. A tear slipped from his eye—but he brushed it away with shaking, clumsy fingers. He had gotten too old for crying. Still, although he could hide his tears, he could never hope to conceal his fear and sorrow.

"Fine, then, take him," France finally said, with a bitterness that made Canada back away from the door slightly. "But remember this. You'll understand soon, when your time comes to lose someone. It's going to happen."

A long pause. Canada crept closer to the door; then, upon hearing footsteps, his heart thudded and constricted within his chest. Dropping the pillow, he ran back to his bed, jumped in, and pulled all the blankets over his head. And not a second too soon, as the door opened only a moment after Canada had hid himself.

"Good morning, Canada," he heard—not the usual "_Bonjour_, _mon p'tit_," that always roused Canada from his dreams every morning (at least, every morning that France wasn't away fighting England or tending to matters at home).

The footsteps came closer. Canada felt England's hand on his shoulder as he sat down on the bed.

"Get up," he said, though without malice or force. Canada knew to resist all the same. He'd heard those same words spoken to the Acadians when England's men entered their villages and brutally expelled them from their homeland. Had he come to do the same to his brand new possession?

The hand's pressure never increased, even as England kept asking Canada to leave his refuge, his home.

"Let me sleep," Canada finally said, his words muffled. He didn't feel tired, but more than anything, he just wanted to be left alone. His heart felt as if it had been crushed beneath a large, heavy boot—beneath the heel of a conqueror.

"You'll have plenty of time to sleep soon. Come now, Canada. I'll put you to bed once we leave here."

It was true that Canada had grown up with both England and France. He loved both dearly; the thought of having to choose between caretakers made him curl into a ball beneath the blankets. Both had hurt him—but that was what brothers did best. No, on second thought, that wasn't quite right. Brothers took care of each other best.

Yet neither England nor France had been doing a particularly good job of looking after him lately. When France wasn't off skirmishing with England, he was lavishing his attention—and his affection—on Guadeloupe. And then there was England, driving his people out of their homes in his furious attempt to 1. demolish the French (and French Canada) and 2. win Canada over. A good strategy for his first aim, but quite the mess for the second.

Those two had made their choices, and probably rather easily. Canada, too, could make his choice easily: he didn't have one to make in the first place. It had been made for him long ago, without his input, without his knowledge. No matter how much he resisted it, he couldn't undo their agreement that forced him to be a sacrifice for peace.

And so, as he crawled out of bed, followed England out the door, and looked at France as he slowly crossed the threshold, Canada knew that it was the end of the beginning of his new life.

But for some reason, he felt that it was also the beginning of the end.

* * *

**Historical notes:**

This fic focuses on the transfer of Canada to the English following the Treaty of Paris 1763, which put an end to the Seven Years War. France gave up Canada in return for Guadeloupe because while Canada was expensive to care for, Guadeloupe bolstered the French economy with its sugar exports. _Le Grand D____érangement _is also mentioned. During the Seven Years War, the English expelled the Acadians from their homes in the Canadian Maritime Provinces. Not exactly a popular move on their part.

I've already started writing the next fic, which will feature **America and England**! It'll be a funny, cute lil' story, based on the theme "middles". (: You can expect an update of either this fic or my other work _By Their Influence_ this weekend.


	2. Middles

**Prompt: **Middles

**Characters: **England, America, brief mention of France

**Edit: **Guys, I just noticed this had a bunch of typos. I blame the US-Portugal game for distracting me (quite severely).

* * *

America beamed as he effortlessly lifted the desk—on one finger, no less. Of all the feats of strength he had displayed recently, this one was sure to impress England the most. _Well, _America thought, _if he wants to see it at all_.

The small nation strained to lift the desk, complete with several heavy books and overflowing drawers, even higher, until it was over his head. He frowned at the tiny doorway and twisted his mouth into a pout as he struggled to figure out a way to get the enormous piece of furniture through such an inconvenient opening. Then, with a grin, he hoisted the desk as high above his head as his little arms could manage and carried it right through the doorway and into the hall.

Even though the resulting crash wasn't loud and America found himself covered in only a tiny dusting of rubble, he still expected England to come running and demand to know just _how _America had managed to destroy the house this time. To his surprise, however, he saw no sign of his older brother as he shook was used to be the doorframe out of his hair and walked down the hall to England's office. If he didn't want to see America's special talent, he might at least want some of the books on the desk. Maybe his caretaker would even thank him for helping.

America smiled even bigger at the thought of England selecting just the book he wanted and then, thanks to America, finishing his work earlier than usual. Then, they could play together that evening by the hearth or go sledding the next morning in the fresh snow. America knew how much his fellow nation loved winter; playing in the snow would surely make him happier. He'd been so stressed lately, always writing long letters and frowning over documents. Once, when America had skipped over to England's desk chair, pushed the thick stacks of papers away, and asked what his brother was scowling at, England had waved him away and said he would understand one day when he was much bigger. America thought he wouldn't get bigger or grow up for a long, long while—_almost as long as it takes England to pour me molasses—_so, based on that amount of time, he would never understand England's work. He just knew he had to rescue him from the evil paperwork before they could have fun together again.

Nudging open the office door (which England had forgotten to close), America tiptoed in as he struggled to keep the desk still to prevent the books from sliding around and making too much noise. Fortunately, this room had a larger doorway. At his own desk, England sat hunched over, his free hand pressed to his temple, his eyes squinting at a lengthy document in front of him. A pen clenched in his other hand, he sighed and let his head droop momentarily while he traced some letters on the paper. He was even ignoring the steaming mug of tea at his elbow.

America knew he had to take action.

"Hey, England!" he said, his huge grin still on his face. "Look what I can do!"

England hesitated. Every time America asked him to behold some new spectacle, some trouble was always involved—and he could not afford any more trouble today. With his workload, he could hardly manage to care for his little colony, shenanigans aside.

Still, worried as he was for his own sanity, he cared more for America's safety.

"That's very n—what are you _doing_? Put that down this instant! How did you even get that in here?"

In spite of his growing suspicion as to the condition of the rest of the house—what had America broken this time?—England slumped in his chair with relief upon seeing America safe. At least he could return to his work now.

America, however, demanded to be noticed.

"But England!" he said as the older nation turned back to his work. He had to get his attention somehow! "Don't you need any of these books?"

"No books today, America."

"But—"

"America, I'm in the middle of something! Can't you just go play by yourself today?"

England said no more but returned to his work with more fervor than before. Couldn't America just _behave _like a normal child?

The door squeaked shut behind him. Closing his eyes once more, England picked up his pen and began writing myriad responses to myriad documents, a fortnight's worth of work to finish in a day.

* * *

After setting down the desk and trying to clean up some of the rubble (by pushing the dust and bits of doorframe and ceiling into corners and under a rug), America grabbed his snow boots and trudged out the front door. Cramming his feet into the too-small boots, he hung his head and stared at the snow-dusted field stretched out before him like a blank piece of paper. A blank canvas waiting impatiently for two nations to sketch memories with their snow boots and create a beautiful scene with the sound of their laughter.

Unfortunately, the canvas would have to wait a while longer, as would America.

_I wish he could at least give me some of his work to do_, America thought. _Then we could play_.

He shivered and wondered if he should go inside. With England perpetually frustrated, however, America felt as if their house had become a prison both for the nation trapped in his work and for the innocent bystander. Putting one in chains enslaved the other, as well.

Outside it was, then.

America pushed himself off the front step and galloped to the edge of the hill on which their house stood. Maybe he could find something to do down there. He looked around for his sled for a few moments; not finding it, he decided to slide down the hill by himself. Spreading out on his stomach, America shoved himself along with his feet until he began to slide down the hill at a satisfyingly quick pace. Then, America tumbled over himself and, in a tangled mess of snow-covered limbs, collided with a tree at the bottom of the slope.

"Ow…" he said as he sat up, struggled to catch his breath, and rubbed his head. The tree hadn't been large enough to cause him significant harm, but he knew his head would likely be hurting for some time.

All the same, he stood up and dusted himself off. For the moment, he could ignore the increasing pain in his forehead—he had too many adventures awaiting him! He could have fun, with or without England.

* * *

Although he had certainly thought he could have fun without the older nation, America quickly realized his swing was not as exciting without England pushing him higher and higher and the accompanying exhilaration. The absence of his brother's laughter made America pull the swing to a halt and look about nervously. He heard nothing but the breeze and the strange emptiness of a lonely winter afternoon. Chills crept up his spine. Perhaps he was colder than he had originally thought. But he couldn't turn back without playing on the frozen lake first. Sliding around, trying to run, falling off the ice into a large snowdrift—the temptation attracted America too much.

Jumping down from the swing, America ran to the lake, his heart racing at the thought of gliding across the ice three times faster than he could run.

He didn't expect the ice to crack beneath his weight the moment he set foot on it.

Into the frigid water he fell, as if being swallowed by some monster lurking beneath the ice. America flailed like a scared infant as his head broke the surface. He gasped, both for air and from the cold. His nostrils clogged with water and his forehead stinging even more, he groped for something to pull himself to safety. His fingers met only a patch of black ice, sending him back under the water. With a violent shiver, he rose to the surface again. Panic as much as cold clouded his thinking. How had England taught him to swim? Could he keep the water out of his mouth, his nose, his eyes? Where _was_ England, again?

He could hardly think of anything sensible to do. So he did something that made no sense at all in the face of his hopeless situation.

He began to scream for help.

* * *

England was beginning to worry. Not because France was once again being an insufferable, pretentious jackass, not even because he had developed hand cramps and eye strain from all his damned paperwork, but because he hadn't heard the slightest sound from America all afternoon. No laughter, no excited shouts, no doors crashing down. It seemed as if America had become a ghost.

Pursing his lips, England kept glancing over his shoulder so often that he finally set his pen down, pushed his chair back, and stood up (wincing when he realized his legs had lost circulation from sitting so long).

"America?" England opened the door to his office a bit more urgently than he'd care to admit. No sign of the boy in the hallway. He speed-walked to America's room next, then to his own—both empty. Even the kitchen was deserted.

"This is really not funny, you know," he said, as if America had just gotten carried away playing hide-and-seek.

_Maybe I hurt his feelings worse than I thought_. England paused, guilt gnawing at his heart, devouring his conscience. _I've been too short with him lately_.

"Okay, I give up! You can come out now!"

No response.

England abandoned all traces of dignity as he began to run throughout the house, flinging open every door and frantically searching under every blanket, in every corner, behind every chair. His throat closed when he peered inside the closet near the front door and found America's snow boots missing and his coat still hanging in the corner.

_Outside, alone, in this weather?_

Thousands of possibilities ran through England's mind at once, as though he had sunk into feverish delirium. America could take care of himself, but…

He couldn't think anymore, just act. England yanked on his own boots, tore both his and America's coats from their hangers, and bolted for the door.

"America!"

England yelled and searched frantically for five heart-stopping seconds before noticing a faint trail of small footprints. He caught his breath when he saw the outline of a small body just at the edge of the steep hill and nearly fell over with relief when he saw the trail continued down the slope.

_It doesn't look like he fell. He must have slid down the hill like this on purpose_.

Sliding after the trail as fast as he could without slipping, England continued his pursuit. For a moment, he stared at the small tree where the prints had guided him, but when he saw another set of tracks leading away from what he gathered was a collision, he figured America must have survived that danger.

What he didn't count on was the sound of his name. Faint, weak, terrified, a voice called out to him.

"America!"

England felt as though his legs would give up from the combination of anxiety and exhaustion, but a new worry spurred him on. He heard the voice again, screaming, crying, pleading; then, he saw his beloved younger brother.

Drowning.

England tripped and fell over the heavy snow as he ran even faster than before toward the lake. He pushed himself up and leaped to his feet, panic both speeding his steps and making his stride even clumsier.

"Hold on, America!"

The younger nation tried to extend his arms toward England as his older brother threw himself onto his stomach just in front of the ice, but he could hardly move his fingers. His teeth chattered as he sank further into the water, keeping him from calling out for help.

"You're fine, you're fine," England said to comfort them both as he struggled to unbutton his coat. _Damn it damn it damn it _stupid _buttons_.

Once he had removed his coat, England clutched one sleeve and threw the other to America.

"Grab on! Don't let go!"

"Ca-ca…"

America wanted to tell England he just couldn't do it, he couldn't free himself from the water, he couldn't grab the makeshift lifeline only a few inches away. He was just too _tired_. He closed his eyes and let himself sink nearly below the surface. He didn't even feel cold anymore. Maybe he could just take a nap like this…

England's eyes widened at the side of America growing limp. No. There had to be something he could do. If the ice had cracked beneath America's weight, it would certainly do the same under his. With America unable to grab anything, however, he had to think of another way to rescue him.

He would have to grab America and pull him out himself.

England squirmed closer to the ice. America was just out of reach; England would have to place at least his chest on the ice to have any chance of reaching him. At an agonizingly slow pace, he inched onto the ice—one elbow on the thin surface, then the other, and then finally his chest. The ice held.

England stretched out his arm and strained his fingers. America was only a foot away, only a few inches, only a hair's breadth too far...

He struggled closer, his stomach in knots. He could have thrown up then and there. He was so close! If America sank any deeper… There was no time left!

_Got him_.

England clutched America's tiny arm. It was so cold, so weak—he had to get him home. Fast.

He pulled the rest of the smaller nation's body out of the water with one quick movement. Then—oh, then!—he had him in his arms again. England pressed the boy close, clinging to him as if he had been the one in the water and America had just rescued him. England snatched both coats up from the ice and swaddled the semi-conscious young nation with them.

"We'll be home soon," he said. "I'll get you warm."

America rested his head against England's snow-crusted shirt in response.

* * *

Moments later, England hurried through the front door (barely remembering to shut it in his haste) and to his room. Gently, he placed America on the bed and removed the now-wet coats.

"Lift up your arms, America," England said as he searched for more blankets. He had a few nice quilts in the closet opposite the bed—would those be warm enough?

"Mmm…" America rubbed his eyes in response.

_Still too cold and tired_, England thought.

"That's okay." England removed America's wet shirt himself and lightly touched the skin on his chest, which seemed more clammy than cold now. England frowned and took off the rest of America's clothes, then wrapped him in a quilt while he ran to find something dry for his little brother to wear.

When he returned, he found America slightly more awake but still woozy. He dressed him quickly, nearly mummified him in blankets, and then lay down on the bed next to him.

As much as England wanted to ask what in the world America had been doing alone outside without a coat, for the moment, knowing that the boy was alive and safe was enough. He ruffled America's hair and kissed his bruised forehead.

"You're safe now," he said. "It'll be all right."

America nuzzled his head against England's arm; in response, England placed his own head beside the younger nation's and drew him closer.

Keeping him warm. That was the key.

England put his hand on America's forehead every so often to make sure he was recovering adequately. Within half an hour, America could speak again.

"England?"

"America?" He breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought you were in the middle of something."

England bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't move for a moment. Then, he placed his chin on top of America's head.

"Is that why you ran away?"

"I didn't run away. I just wanted to play outside. I thought we could go together, but…"

England felt his guilt begin to overtake his relief. He tried to think of a reasonable excuse—_I've had to deal with France's antics so much lately, Parliament is breathing down my neck, the others can't stop fighting all their damned wars—_but none came. He had no excuse to let his work take priority over his little brother.

"I _am _in the middle of something, America, love. I'm in the middle of taking care of you."

With that, the boy snuggled closer, and England stroked his brow until they both fell asleep.

* * *

Originally, I had something different in mind for this fic. Then, I realized I couldn't write humor, so I started from scratch and came up with this.

Thanks to **SiriusDancer **who read _Tea With Honey_, one of my other fics, and requested an extension of the "Lake" sentence, which formed the basis of this story._  
_

The next prompt is **Ends**... I can't decide which characters I want to include in that fic. Canada and America? France and England? Let me know what you think!


	3. Ends

**Prompt: **Ends

**Characters: **France and America, with mentions of England and Canada.

**Notes: **Thanks to **SpiritSeer **for giving me the idea to relate this theme to "Beginnings." They're only loosely related, but eh. They're still better taken together than separately, partly for reasons explained in the "Historical Notes" at the end.

* * *

_"These violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph die, like fire and powder."_ (_Romeo and Juliet_ 2.6.9-10)

"Well, well. I'm not sure what to make of all this."

France chuckled. The story America had brought to him was quite the mess. He wanted freedom, but he refused to lose his brother. His people were unprepared for full-scare war; nevertheless, they stood ready to sacrifice their lives in the name of liberty. He wanted rebellion, but without having to pay in pain and blood.

For a long time—ever since England had adopted America, in fact—France had been watching the nation grow from a lost toddler into a respectable young man. He had seen the older nation lavish his love on the younger, and, although he had often taunted England for doting on his charge too much, their obvious joy had always lifted his spirits. Every time America had come over to visit Canada, he had talked for hours about how much he loved England and what a wonderful big brother he had.

But France had also seen America begin to chafe against his brother. He had seen how England had restrained him, letting him out of their house less and less frequently and trying to make him a clone of himself. And he had seen their happiness begin to spiral dangerously out of control into anger, fear, and resentment.

"I just feel so smothered," America said as France put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not right."

"What's not right?" France asked. "I need the specifics here."

America frowned and stared into the distance. France waited for his reply. He watched the ships entering and leaving the Chesapeake Bay, where America had taken him to talk. Long ago, one such ship had brought him and England to the New World in search of foreign lands and the supposed riches that made their leaders swoon with greed. They had found uncharted territories and plenty of natural resources, of course, but—more importantly—they had found a family.

A family that was about to change drastically and, perhaps, irreversibly.

"Our… inequality." America picked up a boulder and tossed it into the water as if it were a pebble. France jumped away but could not avoid the resulting splash.

"_Oui_," he said with disgust as he ran his fingers through his sopping hair. "I can see that."

America was too lost in thought to speak for a moment.

"No, I don't mean it like that," he finally said. "It's just… I love him, you know."

"Well, you came to the right person, if that's the case."

America groaned at France's giggles. Could _anyone _take his problem seriously?

"No, not like that! It's not like that at all!"

France swung his legs over the edge of the outcrop on which the two countries were sitting. The sun setting at their backs gave the water a deep orange hue with golden undertones. So close to red, so close to the familiar color of war and bloodshed—yet still not dark or deep enough. _Just like America_, he thought.

"Then tell me what it _is _like," France said. He tightened his comforting grip on the American's shoulder. "Be serious if you want me—_him_—to take you seriously."

America watched the waves rise and fall rhythmically, the motion soothing him as he remembered days long dead, days of his childhood, days before he understood what it meant to be a country—to be a person. He wanted to keep growing, to continue learning. He just wasn't sure how he could when England—his beloved England, the one who had first cared for him and kissed his tears away when he cried and taught him things wonderful and strange—still saw him as a frightened child who needed constant supervision and strict guidance. He loved England with his whole heart. He always had. He knew England loved him in return. But there was something more complex in the equation: its lack of an equals sign.

"It's complicated, France."

"Believe me, I know." In his mind, he saw Canada's enormous eyes blinking as they filled with tears. He knew very well the joy of love and the pain of loss.

"I want to be free," America said. He took a breath. "And I don't just mean from him being so strict and treating me like a kid and trying to make me just like him. Not just from silly rules and annoying lectures and being scared of his people. I want—I want to be free to love him _for him_. And I want to receive his love _as myself_."

"It seems you've grown to the height where you can look him in the eye, but his heart isn't ready to be level with yours."

"Yeah, what you said. I've tried to talk to him; he just doesn't listen. Is it so wrong for me to want to be more than his baby brother?"

America's voice had been crescendoing throughout the conversation to the point where he nearly yelled his question. France gave the younger nation a moment to calm down; then, he patted his shoulder. Exhausted from the unrest in his bones and the pangs of grief in his heart, America hung his head. If only things weren't so complicated and so dire. He wished he could reach out a hand to England to help him rather than to hurt him, but the incessant drumbeats and pounding footsteps and rebellious shouts in his mind told him otherwise. Already he had crossed the point of no return.

"Listen well, America," France said. The ships in the harbor had all been abandoned with the impending twilight. France knew the younger nation must have felt every bit as alone now that he had begun to lose England. While he needed—and wanted—to comfort him, he also needed to encourage him and refrain from feeding him lies in an attempt to sugarcoat the truth, which had begun to taste less like candy and more like gunpowder. "There is nothing wrong with how you feel. Nothing at all. Remember that. Cling to that truth when you have nothing else left—and that day may be coming sooner than you realize. Because I think you will have to go to war."

"War." America wished the word didn't exist.

"Yes. War." America's face was turned at such an angle that France couldn't see his expression. "If England won't listen, you must make him listen."

"But—"

"You said your people are afraid. They fear the soldiers. Just look over by the ships—there are plenty of them right there, guns in hand, patrolling the streets. They are here to protect their own people, but they are ready to fight yours, too. America, if there is one thing you _must_ learn to be a true nation, it is to listen to and protect your people at all costs."

France felt his own people's anger swelling in his heart as he spoke.

"I see the soldiers," America said. He hated how they had invaded his land and forced themselves into his people's homes. "But look at my people." America gestured to a lanky man who stood near the water, giggling as he tossed his newspaper on the ground and took another swig of whisky. "You think we even have a chance? You expect _us_ to take down _them_? You… You expect _me_ to go into battle and point my gun at _him_?" America had begun to yell again.

"Not alone. And certainly not now. That's why I will fight beside you when the time comes."

America turned to him, his eyes wide with shock and… fervor?

"You will?"

"Yes." France looked at the twilight sky and once more saw Canada's eyes in the bluish purple colors spreading across the horizon. "You can't do it alone, for one. For another, I support your cause. Not just for your people or for your freedom, but also for your relationship with England. I am _le pays de l'amour_, after all. You said it yourself. You must be free to love him as an equal. Sometimes—sad and strange as it is—we must be broken before we can love fully."

"Will—will Iggy ever recover?" America clenched his jaw and looked France in the eye. "Tell me the truth."

France sighed. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. _Only the truth_, he reminded himself. _This is not the time for sugarcoating. He is no longer a child. I must not treat him like one_.

"No one can be certain how England will take it. The war will cause him a great deal of pain. But perhaps it is necessary."

"I will take responsibility for him." America now stared straight ahead into the water. He had made his decision. He would follow it through, no matter the consequences. "He took charge of me when I was lost and scared. I have to return the favor. I'm not just his brother—he's also mine. And when all of this is over, I will be there. Even if nothing is left. Even if it takes a hundred years. I'll make it right again. I'll make things the way they're supposed to be. This isn't the end."

America spoke more softly now. Tears welled up in his eyes—but he held them back. Now was not the time to cry. "Not for me. Not for him. And not for us."

France smiled sadly. He put his arm around America and drew him close as the last traces of light faded from the horizon.

* * *

Historical Notes:

Most of what's going on here should be pretty obvious, but I'd like to discuss France's role in the American Revolution for just a sec because it's so interesting. Pretty much the main reason France got involved in the Revolution was to get revenge on England for the Seven Years' War (which partly explains why France keeps thinking about Canada). In the Treaty of Paris 1783, which put an end to the war, France really didn't get anything other than a new ally and enormous debts - the latter of which helped spark the French Revolution in 1789. The French people found the American Revolution and its leaders very inspiring. Benjamin Franklin in particular was something of a hero in France.

I absolutely love serious!/wise!/papa!France. I've actually never written him before (well, outside of his few lines in "Beginnings"), so this was kind of an adventure... a painful one, anyway.

**"Insides" **is next and will feature **America and Canada** as per SiriusDancer's request. It should be up soon.


	4. Insides

**Prompt**: Insides

**Characters**: America and Canada (and England is mentioned once, if anyone cares)

**Notes**: I promise that this fits the prompt... just in a subtle way.

* * *

_"Tough / You think you got the stuff. / You're telling me and anyone you're hard enough. / You don't have to put up a fight . . . / Let me take some of the punches for you tonight." ("Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own," U2)_

Canada knew he didn't have to knock on the door or wait for his brother to open it for him. He never had to ask permission to visit America—not on this particular occasion. As always on this evening, the front door was left unlocked, a silent welcome for the young nation and his mission. Canada never had to call ahead of time to let his brother know when he would arrive, nor when he had set foot in the house. America always knew.

Thus began their solemn vigil.

Canada pushed the door shut and locked it behind him. America had left it unlocked for _him _and him alone. No one else was allowed in this night. Not the constant flood of well-wishers. Not the friends who said too many words and performed too few actions. Only Canada, who had come to do just the opposite of everyone else. To comfort, not to speak. To heal through gestures and not platitudes. To place his own burdens at the door and, if only for one night, shoulder his brother's instead.

Upon walking into the kitchen, Canada found the usual plastic basin and placed it in the sink to fill with warm water. Surprised at the emptiness of the room—no stacks of dirty dishes lining the counter, no half-empty bottles of Coca-Cola strewn about the table, no pot of coffee sitting by the microwave—he frowned. Had his brother not eaten at all that day? He couldn't have been _that _busy, Canada knew. America of all people would have been certain to make time for food.

This was more serious than he had realized.

He hurried to fill the rest of the basin; then, once it was full of steaming but not scalding water, he ran to the bathroom and gathered up an armful of soft washcloths and soap. He poured the soap into the basin until the water was saturated with suds. Tucking the cloths under his arm, Canada hoisted the heavy basin and carried it upstairs to America's room.

He paused in front of his brother's door. It _had_ been ten years now—a significant and, consequently, excruciating anniversary. He would be there for his brother no matter what, but… How bad was he, if he hadn't so much as eaten? Would he be suffering as much as he had the first time—or, worse, the first few days? Canada would have to take especially good care of his brother. His hands would have to be extra gentle, his voice even more soothing than usual.

He opened the door, expecting to find his brother in a catatonic state or in the middle of a feverish, restless sleep. America looked every bit as bad as his fellow nation had anticipated. His eyes only half-open, he slouched in bed with the covers (_far more than he needs in this weather_, Canada noticed) pulled up to his chest. He looked as if he could have passed out at any moment—and the dark circles underneath his dull blue eyes warned Canada that he probably would. His hair, horribly tousled, stuck out in every direction, as if he had put his finger in an electrical socket.

If he could, Canada would have traded places with his brother in a heartbeat. This ritual brought him as close to doing so as possible.

America's gaze flickered upward to meet his brother's. Without sitting up any straighter, he began to take his shirt off. Canada walked down the hall to the medicine cabinet. After selecting a few rolls of gauze and medical tape that he thought would work best, he returned to America's room, softly shut the door, and went to work.

Once he was at his brother's side, Canada gasped. Not because of the faded scar running down his abdomen. Not because his ribs had begun to protrude slightly. No. Canada knew that the Civil War scar rarely caused him pain, and America was still strong and muscular despite his economic problems. Those ailments were not responsible for reducing the proud nation to a damaged caricature of himself.

No, what had confined him to his bed and burdened his spirit was an open, festering wound on his chest not far from his heart. Blood ran down America's torso as Canada stared in shock and sympathy.

"Oh, Al…"

Canada's arsenal of medical supplies suddenly seemed inadequate. _Very_ inadequate.

"Wait," he said. America looked down at his hands. His head sank further, his chin now touching his chest.

Canada returned to the medicine cabinet, his mind racing. Sure, the scar had re-opened every time, each anniversary. It had bled a little the first few times. But it had never looked as deep or as infected. The wound needed plenty of attention, Canada knew, and some antiseptic. No matter how thoroughly he searched the medicine cabinet, no matter how many bottles he overturned, he found nothing strong enough to clean the injury.

_Why can't he keep anything useful_ _in__ here_? Canada thought. _None of this is going to help do more than mask the pain or stop the bleeding_.

Another idea struck him then, and he rushed to the bathroom and began searching any cabinet he could find. He had rummaged through all of them and was just about to give up when—there it was!

Canada grabbed the half-full bottle of hydrogen peroxide and grimaced.

_It'll do_. _Definitely not ideal. I guess it's okay in a pinch like this._ He rushed back to America's room. _But…_

America hadn't moved. Canada couldn't tell if he was even awake and breathing until he sat down on the bed next to his brother and placed a hand to his forehead.

_Too hot_.

Canada gestured to his brother to lie down, taking care to hide the dark brown bottle on the floor. America complied and slithered underneath the warm covers, which engulfed his entire body except for his bare torso. Canada slid one arm behind the other nation's shoulders and picked up the peroxide with his free hand. He couldn't delay any longer or somehow hide the remedy from his patient. At the sight of the bottle, America cringed. Canada grasped his hand without a word. Though weaker than usual, America's white-knuckled grip still hurt Canada's hand.

_He'll make it through_. _He's always been strong enough_.

Canada popped open the bottle. Slowly, he poured the clear liquid into America's wound. For a moment, nothing happened; then, America tightened his death grip on his brother's hand, smashing Canada's fingers together. The peroxide fizzed and bubbled as it made contact with America's oozing injury. Even as America clenched his teeth in pain and squeezed his eyes shut, Canada continued to rinse the scar. _Almost there, _he thought. _A little more should be enough_.

Finally, the last drops dribbled onto America's chest, fizzed for a second or two, and then disappeared into the runny mixture of blood, water, and clear pus that overflowed from the jagged edges of the wound and down America's body. Dipping a washcloth into the basin, Canada began mopping up the mess. America's grip relaxed as his brother soothed his aching muscles with experienced fingers that remembered every tender inch of skin and every painful scar, each sensitive pressure point and each ticklish spot.

Canada smiled as the frown faded from his brother's face. Once he had cleaned the blood from America's chest, he helped him sit up straight by grabbing his hands and supporting his shoulders. Canada rubbed a few circles into his back before returning his attention to the wound. He made a face at the red, inflamed skin and gingerly felt the agitated area. Still too warm, even in comparison with the rest of America's body. He knew he could do little more now that he had disinfected and rinsed the wound. America had always felt better in the morning, but then again, his condition had never been quite this serious. Canada supposed he could only hope for the best—but not until he had at least bandaged the injury.

America began to drift in and out of sleep under his brother's attentive care that neither missed nor overlooked any ailment and forgot no pain. His entire day had been filled with vivid nightmares and even more horrific memories than usual. The sight of his unwavering brother and the feel of his soft, cold hands, however, never failed to remind him that he had not been abandoned, had not been cast aside to suffer alone. Instead of fire and screams and questions, he thought of snow and whispers and answers; of peace and forgiveness and love, not war and anger and hatred. Only his brother could soothe the madness gripping his mind. Canada may have been quiet and wordless while caring for America, but his healing actions spoke louder than any jet screaming overhead.

Canada searched his medical trove until he found a thick roll of gauze and tore off two large pieces. With the quick, calculated skill of a seasoned military medic, he placed them over America's wound while tearing off several long strips of medical tape. One hand securing the already-moist gauze, he wrapped the tape around his brother's chest. Then, after scrutinizing his handiwork to make sure the bandage was neither too tight nor too lose, Canada returned the supplies to his pile on the nightstand and pushed them aside.

Time to tend to the better-hidden—and, thus, more insidious—damage.

After helping America to lie down again, Canada soaked a fresh washcloth in the basin, wrung out the excess water, and began stroking America's forehead. While humming a lullaby England used to croon to them when they were children—neither brother could remember the words, only the comforting, lilting melody that had dried many a tear and driven away any nightmare—he wiped the sweat off the other nation's brow and cheeks with slow, circular motions. By the time he had finished cleaning his neck, America had fallen asleep, his mind empty and his sleep dreamless but peaceful. Canada chuckled (didn't his brother normally wait to fall asleep until he had crawled into bed beside him?) but said nothing. Careful not to disturb America, he rose from the bed and gathered everything but the basin in his arms and left to put the supplies in the cabinet and the cloths in the laundry. Once his brother had left the room, America awoke and, dazed, glanced around the room a few times in search of his caretaker. Slowly, his mind now encumbered by both his sudden awakening and his relentless fever, America sat up. Where had his brother gone? It was already morning, wasn't it? Canada had _always _spent the entire night, but now there was no trace of him…

A moment later, Canada returned, though America thought an eternity had passed. America gave his brother a funny look; in response, Canada shrugged and handed America his shirt. Once he was dressed again, he moved to the other side of the bed to make room for his brother to sit beside him, as always. Canada shut the door, turned off the light, and took his place next to his brother. As was their tradition, America placed his head on his brother's lap and closed his eyes when he felt the other nation's fingers combing through his hair, smoothing every strand into place and working through each tangle.

When America began to snore (_he's as loud as ever—thank goodness_), Canada removed his brother's glasses and placed them on the nightstand beside a bottle of acetaminophen he had brought in case America awoke ill and in pain.

With a sigh of relief and exhaustion, Canada pulled the blankets around his brother and himself. When they awoke, it would be the twelfth. If America's scar healed as well as it always had, the nightmare would be over for another year. And then, next anniversary, Canada would be there to comfort his brother and protect him from his memories, from his injuries, from his fears. When they awoke, neither brother would speak of that night, nor of any other anniversary nights, nor of their vigil at all. Canada would get up first (America deserved to sleep in after such an awful day) and make as many stacks of pancakes as he could with the supplies in America's kitchen. After breakfast, Canada would return home—but not without enveloping his brother in a tight hug, as if to say, "You're welcome. And I'm always here. Don't try to shoulder this alone."

They _were _brothers, after all.

* * *

I struggled to post this in time, but I made it! 7/7/14 is my five year FF anniversary. (:

I'm not one for big personal dedications, but here goes:

To the people who welcomed me into their country this time more than 10 years ago, when I was a little girl leaving behind the only city she knew. To the neighbors who surrounded my family on 9/11 and held us close. To the classmates who took my hand and asked if I was okay, even though they didn't know what was going on, either. To the adults who laughed at my "Southern" accent. To the friends who caused me to speak a weird mix of American and Canadian English and gave me a strange accent that comes out whenever I sing. To the people who make me proud to say I grew up in Canada:

**Thank you.**

Our countries, our people, are truly more than friends. We are brothers.

To all my Canadian readers: this one's for you.

The next theme is "**Outsides**" and will feature **France and Canada**.


	5. Outsides

**Prompt: **Outsides

**Characters: **France and Canada (again, England is mentioned once, if anyone really cares)

**Notes:** For this prompt, I came up with my own headcanon regarding how nations can "sense" each other. I _think_ it's canon that they can somehow. The details of how exactly this happens, though, are my own invention. (:

* * *

Snow crunched beneath France's thick boots as he trudged through the forest. The wind whistled sharply, scattering pine needles like confetti and cutting through the nation's coat. The call of a bird in the distance hailed the sunset and warned France that he had only another hour or so before total darkness engulfed the land.

_What a strange place_, he thought. Twilight came early in his home, but never this soon, not even in winter. And speaking of the season—France shivered—he had _never_ experienced so biting a chill, so severe a cold. The mere idea of the temperature dropping even further with nightfall, impossible as it seemed, made him wrap his arms around himself for warmth.

What a waste, coming to an abandoned world with only trees, snowflakes, and a bird or two for inhabitants. He had traveled all the way across the ocean for this? To find frozen streams devoid of life and a wasteland covered in shin-deep snow? He could imagine Spain laughing at him, gold coins running through his fingers as he asked what the going price was for ice and pine needles.

_Fine, _France thought. _Let them brag. Let them drown in their wealth_._ I'll find something more valuable than they could ever imagine!_

He stared up at the sky—at least, what he could see of it above the towering, snow-trimmed trees. A lone star twinkled in the center of the pale pink circle formed by the tips of the pines. He had spent too much time searching the forest in the hopes of finding _something_, be it food, people, or shelter, the latter of which weighed most heavily on his mind. His men had set up camp near the shore, but, much as he wanted to curl up in his bunk with a satisfied stomach beside a roaring fire, he did not know if he would be able to find his way back in the dark.

With a scowl, France began to retrace his steps through the forest. Each tree looked the same as the last, from the height of its branches to the pattern of its shimmering white cloak. For the first time since he had arrived in this land, France was grateful for the snow. If he had no other way of getting back to camp, at least he could follow his footprints. As long as he didn't take too long, he would be fine. Perhaps he could return tomorrow once the sun had risen and he had more time to explore.

But what _was_ there to see? It seemed to France that, while the forest and the sea were beautiful, their appearance was nothing special—maybe a bit repetitive, even. A day spent searching the trees and exploring the shore would yield the same result as a year spent traveling coast to coast. No variation in climate or terrain, no special landmarks or unique sights, no interesting peoples or native flora and fauna.

For some reason, the barrenness made France exceptionally lonely. It instilled its own emptiness in his heart to the point that the nothingness felt as all-consuming as the descending twilight. He didn't think he had wandered quite this far; had he simply lost track of time complaining to himself about the cold?

He was just beginning to lose heart and hope—of returning to camp before dark, of finding anything in this new world, of getting through such a cold winter—when he saw a glimmer of something behind one of the pine trees. Something small and golden, like a tiny star fallen to earth and moving about on its own. France blinked, then squinted into the forest. Whatever the thing was had scurried deeper into the densely packed trees. He could have sworn he heard something running through the snow.

_Well, _France thought after looking at the sky and grimacing. _If I won't get back in time, anyway…_

Pulling his coat tighter around his shivering body, France tiptoed as quickly as he could without frightening his quarry. His heart thudded, and his mind raced with possibilities. Although he did not know whether he had goose bumps from excitement or the cold, he did know one thing: this could be his chance!

France peered around a tree and whipped his head from side to side in search of the creature. The sound of snow crunching underneath tiny feet had been growing louder since France had taken pursuit; then, it had stopped. France heard nothing but his breathing and the distant cries of an owl. Still, he waited. Fantastic and ephemeral though it was, that flash of movement could not have been a hallucination, a trick of an exhausted, frustrated mind. As much as it resembled one of England's magic tricks, that tiny hint of gold was just too real—as was the strange feeling in France's chest. As he crouched by the tree, his muscles tense from preparing himself to take off running the moment the creature returned, he felt something akin to a tiny pitter-pattering of feet on his heart, like a small child dancing with light, graceful steps.

Yes, he knew the sensation well. No matter how much he attempted to stifle it (if he ever did—it was a wonderful feeling for the most part), the same warmth tickled his heart whenever another nation came near.

There it appeared again—the same glimmer!

"Wait!"

France resumed his chase. A tiny whimper came from a small clearing, then the sound of someone tripping in the snow. His brow furrowing, France hurried into the clearing. While he was glad he might have a chance to catch up to this strange nation, he also hoped it hadn't hurt itself somehow.

"Hey!" France called as he rushed past the last few trees. "I—"

The words caught in his throat and turned into a gasp.

If France had thought the scenery boring before, he found it all the more wonderful now. The snow-dusted lake stretching across the horizon took his breath away from both surprise and delight. In the distance, he could see the moon rising and more stars twinkling in the sky, but their glory paled next to the frozen, blue-white body of water. It looked as though someone had captured part of the sky and spread it before him, the lake was so vast and ethereal.

He had been wrong about this land. Now, the thought of it being boring or typical seemed sacrilegious, and France felt a pang of guilt and regret. His heavy conscience, however, did not drown out or diminish the burning fire in his heart. At the sound of something shuffling in the snow behind him, France whirled, just in time to see a tiny boy with golden curls scamper behind a tree. The older nation waited. After a moment's pause, the child peered out at him, only to disappear into his hiding place once more. France took a step closer.

"Wait," he said. "It's okay. I'm a nation like you."

Again, he waited. As if on cue, the little boy gazed at France from behind the conifer, which he clung to with all his strength—or tried to, at least, since his arms were too small to encompass the entire trunk.

"That's right," France cooed. He took another step; this time, the boy did not retreat but simply blinked his large eyes. "I'm like you. My name's France."

When he took a few more steps, the boy did not run or hide; instead, he released his grip on the tree and carefully crept closer.

"Like me?" the boy asked once France was kneeling in front of him. His voice, quiet and meek, was like a soft winter breeze. France extended his hand; the boy stared at it for a few seconds before turning his attention to France's face. "Is that why I feel warm when you're close?"

France smiled. He wanted to sweep the little boy off his feet and into his arms and take him back to camp with him that moment. For fear of scaring him, however, he restrained himself (with some difficulty).

"Yes, that's right. As long as you feel nice in here—"—France put his hand over his heart—"—you know that one of us is nearby, and that we're friendly."

Slowly, as if the older nation were a ghost that might fade without warning at any moment, the child reached out a shaking hand and grasped one of France's fingers. He pulled the young man's hand closer until it rested over his heart. The boy's chest was so small France's hand covered it entirely.

Neither nation moved until the smaller smiled, his violet eyes crinkling as joy spread across his face.

"It _is _warm."

France began to breathe again. While the child's gesture had not necessarily surprised him, he too had not been completely certain the boy wouldn't run away at any moment. The child's smile reassured them both, and France knew, even without the boy's saying so, that he trusted him.

"What's your name?" France asked. He ruffled the boy's hair.

"I'm Canada," he said between giggles. "That tickles!"

"Oh, so you're ticklish, Canada?" France grabbed the child's sides, causing him to squeal with delight.

After tickling the smaller nation until he had begged for mercy between shrieks of laughter, France looked back at the lake. His heart sank when he realized the sun had set long ago and night had fallen fast. With only faint moonlight to guide him, he had no idea how to get both Canada and himself safely back to camp. He had to think of some way to protect them both.

"Don't be sad!" Canada tugged on France's sleeve, having noticed his fellow nation's frown.

"It's not that," he said as he patted Canada's head. "It's just that I don't know how I'm going to get home now."

"I'll take you. I know where it's at. But we hafta hurry!"

France let the little boy guide him through the woods a different way than he had originally come. Around pine tree after pine tree they raced, Canada skipping ahead and pulling France behind him.

_He must know his way through here very well_, France thought as the small nation led him through the dark labyrinth. _I wonder…_

Moments later, they had reached the edge of the forest. France grinned at the glowing fires in the distance and the sound of voices speaking his language.

"Let's go, Ca—"

The boy let go of France's hand and slinked back into the woods behind a tree.

"No."

France could tell from Canada's shaking voice that he was crying. He took a step closer, but the child merely skittered further away.

"What's wrong, _mon p'tit_?"

Canada wiped his eyes and shook his head. France tried again.

"Are you all alone?" he asked. Canada began to sob. "It must be hard living here by yourself."

"I-I don't w-want you to g-go," Canada choked out. "All—all the others l-left. Once th-they became my friends… they w-were gone!"

No matter how much Canada rubbed his eyes, he couldn't stymie his tears. France's heart moved with pity and love for the tiny boy. He wished once more to cradle him in his arms and kiss his forehead and sing him to sleep, but keeping him from running away came first. As before, France reached out his hand to the child, who continued to sob in his hiding place in the shadowy forest.

"There's no need to cry, _mon trésor_," France said with a gentle smile. "I will stay with you. I'm not going to leave. I will take care of you."

Canada sniffled. "Really?"

France placed his hand over his heart and nodded.

"Of course I will, Canada." Cold as he was, he felt wonderfully warm inside. "I promise. I'll be by your side."

"Forever and ever and ever?" Canada tiptoed a little closer and let go of the tree he had been clinging to for support.

"Forever and ever and ever and always."

Canada would have crashed into France as he blindly raced from the forest had the older nation not grabbed him mid-run and scooped him up onto his shoulders. He buried his face in France's hair and wrapped his arms around his neck as he wept—but tears of joy now rather than tears of fear and sadness.

"Will you be my Papa?" He nuzzled his cheek against France's hair and closed his eyes.

"Yes, _mon trésor en sucre_. I will be your Papa."

"Will we have tickle fights and play hide-and-seek in the forest and skate on the lake?"

"Of course, although I think you'll beat me at hide-and-seek. No doubt about that!"

"Will you snuggle me at night and tell me you love me?"

"Of course I will, Canada."

"Every night?"

"Every night."

And that was how the men at the camp found them sleeping the next morning, with Canada pressing his face against France's neck and France cradling his treasure close to his heart.

* * *

**Historical Notes:**

The French were actually not the first people to explore Canada. Norsemen settled in Newfoundland for a short time in 1000; then, John Cabot, an Italian explorer sent by the English, landed there briefly. The French _were_ the first to claim Canada officially, in 1534. This explains why Canada claims that all the others left him until France came.

**Translations** (native speakers, please correct me if I'm wrong! I'm just a poor student who learns what she's taught!):

_Mon trésor _= my treasure. It's a French term of endearment.

_Mon trésor en sucre_ = my treasure of sugar (roughly). _En sucre_ is something you can add to a term of endearment as a modifier.

_Mon p'tit_ = my little one.

Since I found out I can do the prompts out of order, I don't know what's coming next, but it will probably feature **America and England. **Suggestions, anyone?


	6. Hours

**Prompt: **Hours

**Characters: **America and England, a little of Canada

**Notes: **Forget what I said about doing these out of order. I like the way they're set up, so that's how they'll stay.

* * *

"Do we _really_ have to do this, England?"

America tugged at his jacket and pouted. England grabbed his hands to keep them still and dragged the younger nation along behind him.

"Of course we do. It's an important thing for any gentleman to know."

America made a face behind England's back. He certainly didn't _feel _like a gentleman, nor did he want to be one—not that he knew what a gentleman was, of course. If being one involved doing something as gross and as silly as this, he wanted nothing to do with it. He'd sooner be running outside and playing in the mud than standing here all gussied up for _dance_ lessons. He didn't tell that to his older brother, of course; instead, he kept grimacing when he thought England wasn't looking. As if the humiliation of being forced to learn something so girly weren't enough, his dress clothes were too hot for the blistering July heat (which reached even indoors) and too small for his rapidly growing frame.

"How long is this gonna take? I wanna go play with Canada!"

"Hours. Days. _Months_."

"Seriously?"

"No, it'll take as long as it takes you to stop complaining." _Which might as well be forever_.

Much as he loved America, England sometimes found raising him properly a bit… _frustrating_. He had expected this to be one such irritating occasion, but America's stubborn resistance still surprised him. Bargaining might have to be the way to go in this case.

"If you listen and be good for one hour, you and Canada can go play for the rest of the day."

Perhaps the deal was overwhelmingly in America's favor, but if it kept him from fussing, almost any truce was worth making. Since neither country had a particularly heavy workload that day, England supposed he could settle for an hour of teaching in exchange for a free afternoon for them both.

"Now," said England once they had arrived in the makeshift ballroom (a large room in the house with all the furniture pushed aside), "we'll just work on the waltz today. Nice and simple."

America said nothing but crossed his arms and waited. Until he absolutely had to, he didn't want to move a muscle. England sighed and grabbed America's hands. One way or another, he would win this power struggle.

"Here, stand on my shoes," he said, trying to make his voice cheerful and his commands exciting. "You'll be tall enough then—ow!"

England clenched his teeth and swore to himself as America stepped on his feet.

"Sorry," the younger country said, his gaze cast downward. Okay, so he _had_ been trying to get back at the other nation, but he hadn't meant to _hurt_ him.

England chuckled to break the mounting tension.

"Don't worry about it." His toes were still smarting, but the lesson would go nowhere if he held a grudge about an accident. Experience had taught him that nothing destroyed a dance like frustration.

"Now what?" Ten seconds and America had already grown impatient and bored; how was England to keep his attention for an hour?

"We have to position your hands right." England guided the child's left hand to the edge of his shoulder, then held his other hand out to the side. As he curled his right arm around America's back, England continued, "This is how you're supposed to stand. Hold on tight to my shoulder now—no, not quite _that _tight. There, that's better."

England smiled. America pouted.

Two minutes and no progress beyond basic positioning.

_Be patient with him_. _It wasn't any easier or more fun when France tried to teach you. Tried._

England willed himself to stay calm and cheery.

"Since I think we've got that down, let's try turning. I'll take a few steps, then turn. Follow my lead, America."

America's feet encumbering his own, England took one slow step to the right, then to the left. Reluctantly, America moved along at first, but his brother's sudden turn caught him off-guard and nearly send him sliding off his shoes and across the floor. He gripped the other nation's hand and shoulder to catch his balance.

"Why didn't you warn me?" America scowled.

"Because—"—England turned again, nearly losing his colony once more—"—when you're dancing with someone, let's say a lady at a ball, you don't pick when the turns come. There's a set rhythm. Both of you have to be ready."

"But I don't _want _balls or ladies or rhythms!"

"Well, not yet, of course. You're still too young—but that's why you need to learn now, so you don't make an oaf of yourself later."

"But I _like _being a whatchamacallit," America mumbled. England didn't hear him. He was too lost in thought, memories and hopes alike filling his mind. Until America had stepped on his feet, he hadn't noticed how tall he was; until he had mentioned women and dances, he hadn't realized how much his colony had grown up. True, he was still a young boy, but boys became men fast—and that was a bittersweet truth that struck England as far more upsetting than uplifting.

Maybe he should just go let him be a child.

"You can go now, America," said England, releasing the boy's hand and back and prying his hand off his shoulder. "Thank you for listening to me. Go change your clothes and play with Canada."

England turned to leave. The mid-morning sunshine pouring in through the large window, once meant to act as a pretend chandelier in the makeshift ballroom, now seemed far too bright and real. All of his plan—dressing up as if for a real dance, practicing the steps together, enjoying one another's company—he now thought too fanciful, too childish for a boy who was too rapidly outgrowing make-believe games and too quickly becoming independent. He didn't need to be led in a dance but to lead by himself, for himself.

How long would it before he needed England no more?

* * *

At the sound of yelling, England set down his teacup and forced himself to his feet. Since the failed dance lesson that morning, he had spent most of the day sitting by the front hall window, a cup of tea in one hand and a book of Shakespeare in the other. England loved the works of his greatest playwright not only when he could focus on each line but also when he could pay no attention to the words at all. The meter and wordplay, usually lovely and nimble on his tongue when he read aloud, now sounded like a tempest of letters rattled off for no particular purpose other than to serve as a distraction—a way for England to keep his mind off America.

But, with both of the boys shouting at each other (at least, England assumed Canada was yelling back—America didn't seem to be arguing with himself) he had no good way to distract himself any longer.

_I should probably go make sure they're not fighting over anything too serious_, he thought as he trudged upstairs to America's room. Quietly, he stood outside the door to listen before intervening.

"Yes, Canada, you have to be the lady! You look more like one, anyway!"

"But—"

"Here, your hand goes on my shoulder, and I get to step on your feet!"

"But—"

The situation had just gotten too strange for England's patience, but he was too amused to reveal himself and ruin the moment. When Canada yelled (more like sharply whispered) in pain, however, he decided he should probably sacrifice his fun for the boy's safety.

"What's—" England peered into the room and immediately began guffawing.

Still in his dress clothes from that morning, America was holding an unamused, struggling Canada the same way England had been holding him earlier when they were waltzing. America tried to turn with his feet firmly placed on his brother's but lost his balance and, not having the sense to let go of Canada, brought the other nation down with him.

As the two colonies struggled to untangle themselves, America yelling that Canada was too clumsy and Canada complaining that America was an idiot, England wiped the tears from his eyes and, hands over his mouth, tried to control his fit of giggles.

America indeed had grown quickly, England realized, but one part of him would never age: his childlike heart.

* * *

I don't know how I feel about the way this turned out. It's short and does not at all feel like something I would write. Anyway. I may expand on it in a later theme set in modern times or something.

Next up is **Days**, which will focus on **Canada**. I think there'll be more of America and England coming up after that, but we'll see.


	7. Days

**Prompt: **Days

**Characters: **Canada-centric, but all the members of the FACE family make an appearance.

* * *

Whenever he felt as if he could no longer take on the world, he found himself here. If things ever became too much—if the other nations had forgotten him again, if America had been especially overbearing, if someone had beaten him up in his brother's stead—Canada made time, no matter how busy his schedule, to come here. This beautiful world nestled in the mountains hid him from his fears, his frustrations, his worries. The forested slopes sheltered him like a mother, and the winter wind listened like a treasured confidant.

Yes, this world was Canada's sanctuary. And today, he needed it badly.

Perhaps it was a bit of an exaggeration to say that last Thursday had been one of Canada's worst days in the last decade, but it felt accurate nonetheless. Fortunately, everything in his country was fine. No coups, no outrage at the government, no killings. As a person, however, Canada felt as if someone were beating him into the ground with a heavy shovel. After _somehow_ oversleeping for an important meeting, he had gotten into a car crash in the middle of an intersection in downtown Ottawa. The other driver had turned right at a red light without stopping and crashed into the passenger's side of Canada's car. Luckily, neither driver had been hurt aside from minor whiplash, but the flow of traffic had been severely impeded for the next several hours as a result. More than a few fellow commuters had glared at Canada and the young university student who had hit him and who had spent the whole time they had to wait at the scene blaming him for making her miss both of her morning classes.

Once he had finally speed-walked (more like full-out run at some points) the last few kilometers to the government building, the meeting had ended and he had been left with one angry Governor General and a handful of irritated Ministers. Willing as they had been to accept the crash excuse, none of the officials had dismissed the oversleeping problem. One of the younger Ministers had begun to give him an earful of complaints about how the nation had completely ruined the morning; however, with a look from the Governor General, he had stopped. The silence had not been at all merciful for Canada; in fact, the wordless disapproval of the viceroy and the searing look he had directed at the country had been far worse than any furious lecture.

Still without a car, Canada had had to take a jam-packed bus to Gatineau, where the other government building he had needed to work in for the day had been. Usually, the nation loved taking public transportation and mingling with his people. That day, however, everyone had been complaining amongst themselves about downtown traffic and how stupid whoever had gotten into that accident must have been. As if that hadn't been bad enough, someone had yelled at the country for sitting down next to him, even though his feet had been aching and his legs about to give out. The moment he had stepped off the bus and back onto the snow-lined sidewalk had felt like a release from an overpopulated prison. For a short while, Canada's heart had seemed a bit lighter and much more relaxed.

At least, until his phone had rung the moment he had entered the building. With a sigh, he had fished it out of his pocket, expecting some official to be ready to badger him about some other problem he had caused (or, perhaps, had not actually been responsible for at all). The caller ID had instead shown England's name. Canada had sighed with relief then, having hoped that he could perhaps take some time to talk to his fellow nation about how awful all of the four hours he had been awake had been.

"Hello?"

"Canada? Oh, good, you're all right!"

"England?" The panic in England's voice had made Canada's heart convulse. He had left the crowded lobby to continue the strange call on the deserted sidewalk. "What's going on?"

"I heard you got into a bad crash this morning."

"It wasn't that bad. How did you hear about it?"

"I have my ways."

"_England_."

"Your Governor General represents my Queen, remember?"

"I am perfectly aware of how _my_ government works."

"Don't use that tone of voice with me! I'm trying to make sure everything is okay over there."

"Things are _fine_. I have had full and unrestricted control of my Constitution for over _twenty years _now."

"This isn't about that! All I did was call to make sure you were all right, and now you're acting like a child."

"Only because you treat me like one!"

"There you go again! Fine, you can deal with things on your own, but just know you're in some bloody hot water with _your_ leaders at the moment."

England had hung up after that.

Much as he loved his former caretaker, Canada still fought with England on occasion. They both reconciled quickly and never spoke of their fights afterward. Nonetheless, Canada had been frustrated enough before the phone call, and England, having agitated him further, had been more insufferable than he usually was when the two argued. Canada had silently fumed the entire elevator ride and the rest of the walk to his office. He had slammed the door and then gotten yelled at for being too loud and disruptive (possibly the first time anyone had charged him with being too noisy). Meanwhile, someone down the hall had been yelling at her coworkers for fifteen minutes in some of the worst French he had ever heard this side of Saskatchewan. One hand covering his face as if to keep it from exploding, he had pulled out his phone again and toggled to a specific, oft-selected number in his contacts.

_Hey, _he had texted France, _do you have a moment to talk_?

Canada had no sooner returned his phone to his pocket when France had replied.

_Désolé, too busy_.

_Too busy to reply within seconds_? Canada had thought—and had almost texted to his Papa. _Or just too busy for _me?

The afternoon had played out like the morning. Canada had gotten a call from the Prime Minister around two that had dragged on until three for no good reason. For most of the conversation, he had simply paid lip service to his leader while trying to find something outside to distract himself. The angry Anglo masquerading as a Francophone down the hall had begun to call out each individual worker who had stepped on her toes in one way or another. The whole situation had made Canada curl his toes and gnaw the inside of his cheek in frustration. He had known for a fact that most, if not all, of the people working in this particular building had been bilingual. There had been absolutely no need for that woman to slaughter his second language other than to infuriate others.

In an attempt to block out the atrocious noise, Canada had put on his headphones and tried to listen to some Metric. A Senator had come into his office while the country had been too lost in thought to notice him and had not been amused when Canada had been unable to hear him thanks to his loud music. That conversation had not gone very well. Now that he had angered the Governor General, half the Cabinet, and a Senator and blown off the Prime Minister, all he had had to do had been to snub an MP. Fortunately for him, that hadn't happened by the time the afternoon had ended.

His day still hadn't gotten better by then, however. Everything had been playing out like a bad TV sitcom, and by six, Canada had gotten tired of being the token bungler whom everyone delighted in kicking around. More trouble had been waiting for him on the bus home, with everyone still complaining about that damned crash from that morning. The nation had thought his chagrin couldn't have worsened until the university student who had hit him had flounced onto the bus. The moment their eyes had met, he had wished he could have been as invisible to his people as he had always been to everyone else.

"You!" she had yelled, pointing a finger at him. The other riders had sat up straighter and watched the sudden debacle, having been oddly intrigued by the drama about to unfold before them. "You're the one who hit me this morning!"

"Um, I think it was you—"

"You're the reason there are so many people on this bus, since _you _caused that crash downtown!"

There had gone Canada's hope of quietly blending in and finding a place to sit.

Most of the other passengers had coughed awkwardly and returned to their newspapers and phones, but every so often, one of them had shot him an irritated look. The student, on the other hand, had gone on and on for the rest of the ride about how her day had been completely ruined, from the moment she had spilled her double-double to the time her professor had called on someone else when she had raised her hand in her psychology lecture.

"You don't even care, do you?" she had charged when she had noticed the nation staring out the window with his chin cupped in his hand.

"Sorry." Canada had not cared in the least, actually, but had felt compelled to apologize all the same. He had had enough enemies on the bus, anyway, and hadn't felt like demonizing himself further.

"Can't hear you!"

"Sorry!"

"I still can't hear you!"

Canada had turned to face the wall and had rolled his eyes. At this point, he hadn't been sure whether she had been spiteful about being unable to hear him or whether she actually had been unable to understand his quiet voice. A phone call had saved him (temporarily) from having to make the decision.

With every ounce of fervor he had left in his heart, he had prayed for France, not England or the Senator or the Anglo or anyone else he had upset that day.

It had seemed, however, that God had had a sense of humor, since the caller had been someone worse than all of them combined.

"Yes, Al?" Canada had been careful to avoid calling his brother "America," for fear of the other passengers further alienating him. They had thought him crazy enough already.

"Dude! Why d'ya sound so _down_?"

"Well, you see—"

"Nah, never mind, I'm a little busy for a long story at the moment. But you should totally hear about my awesome day! I got up early this morning and—"

"Al, I—"

"Huh, I think I just heard a breeze. That's weird. Anyway, after I had like five cups of coffee—"

"_Alfred._"

"Hm, the wind's really picking up. So then—"

And with that, Canada had hung up the phone.

Arriving home hadn't been much better. The girl had nearly pushed Canada off the bus at his stop, then had followed him for a block or so before screaming that she never wanted to see him again and then slipping on a nearby patch of ice and blaming him for her troubles anew. Finally, she had stormed away for good, leaving Canada to finish his fifteen-minute walk home in silence.

A short while into his journey, America had called back—_probably took him forever to realize I'd hung up on him_—but Canada had just turned off his phone after checking to see if France had texted him with an offer of listening to him vent. No response. Even if England had been smothering and America domineering, Canada had always trusted France to have his back—but not today, it had seemed.

The one thing Canada had expected to go right that day had been his evening alone at home. Fate, however, had not yet had her fill of pushing around the northern nation. While no one had called him that night to pester him (on his landline, at least—if someone had called his cell, he wouldn't have discovered it unless he or she had confronted him the next morning), there had been plenty of other things that could have gone wrong—and had.

First on Canada's list of grievances was that when he had tried to open his bag of milk, he had somehow managed to cut too big a hole and split it all over himself and the floor. Trying to control his frustration, Canada had changed out of his sopping suit and into sweatpants, a Canadiens hoodie, and slippers and mopped up the mess. The annoyance of having been so clumsy—any _three-year-old_ could properly open and pour a bag of milk!—had made him lose his appetite, even though he hadn't eaten all day. Still, given his exhaustion, he had forced himself to eat some cold leftover mashed potatoes (_which would be nice with some milk_, he had thought with narrowed eyes). Eating had made him feel a bit warmer and happier inside until he had realized that the potatoes had been more than a week old and smelled a bit strange.

That had been the last straw. That, or the fact that he had been too stressed to sleep well that night and had nearly overslept again.

Canada had known what he'd needed to do.

And so here he was. The moment he'd been able to get out of his office for a few days, he'd taken the first flight to Calgary and made the soothing drive on the Trans-Canada through the Albertan city and into the Rocky Mountains. Sometimes, he stopped in Canmore or Banff and spent a few hours milling through the quaint side streets tucked between towering snow-dusted peaks—but not on this trip. Not when he truly needed to be alone, away from his people and leaders and fellow nations.

After a little more than half an hour of driving past Banff and white fields and dark pines, he had reached the lake. Canada parked his car in the lot in front of the visitor's center, which was surprisingly empty given the time of day and of year. Hardly anyone here at two in the afternoon on a Saturday in December? How odd. Better for him, at least. Canada pulled on his gloves and tightened his coat and began the trek up the short, forested path from the parking lot to the lake. A cloud of condensate swirled around his face as he breathed in the refreshingly chilly, clean air.

Yes. This was what his heart had desperately needed.

Then, as he reached the top of the small hill, there it was: Lake Louise. An icy expanse stretched out between snow- and conifer-covered peaks that reached so high they touched the clouds in a grayish-white haze. In the middle of the mountain straight across from the lake, there was a bowl-shaped indentation that, with its chalk-colored rock randomly covered with snowdrifts, looked like melted vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate chips and runny chocolate syrup. On visits when he felt particularly troubled or distressed, Canada wished he could curl up in that bowl, as if in the lap of a mother, and sleep for an eternity.

But not now. Not when he had trails to hike where he could sit on the rocky slope and watch the otherworldly world remain motionless before his eyes. Motionless but for the people in the ice castle. A special attraction only for the winter months, the ice castle was a shimmering structure formed near the edge of the lake closest to the visitor's area. With the lake's icy surface solid enough to stand and skate on, the castle was open for tourists to explore its thick walls and meticulously crafted interior that looked as if it came from a world far beyond human reach and understanding. Such was this entire area, a truly undeserved gift of nature given to heal the hearts of men and to touch their souls with an ineffable touch that seemed to come from the hand of God Himself.

So it was, Canada's sanctuary. And so it delved deep into his broken heart to piece it together again.

After stopping in the Chateau (a famous hotel on the lakefront) for coffee and watching a few skaters playing hockey on the lake in makeshift rinks, Canada began hiking up one of the paths that, in the summer and early autumn, led to the Lake Agnes Tea House. Over two kilometers up the mountain and just visible between the trees, the tea house had always been one of Canada's favorite places in the national park. He had once tried to get America to hike up to it with him, but with his brother having passed out midway up the mountain (Canada was certain he had done it out of laziness rather than poor fitness), he had decided not to try that again.

Canada smiled at the thought of his obnoxious brother. The lake was working its magic already.

Once he had climbed high enough that the Chateau looked like a small house and the lake a beautiful pond, Canada sat down on the ledge and closed his eyes. As it always did in the Canadian winter, the sun had begun to set early, fading behind the mountains in front of the nation in a soft burst of orange and pink light that shone through the ice castle. The bowl gleamed golden as the sun sunk before it. The soft breeze tickled Canada's cheeks and toyed with his hair like a lover. Although the last hints of warmth and light had begun to disappear, bringing the promise of a cold, dark night, he felt only peace and safety. He never feared nature or his land. As long as he sat there, alone in contemplation, nature's physician could work on his spirit with her delicate fingers that healed every memory and set aright every pain. _All would be well_, the wind whispered in his ear. With the twilight and stars would come a new nation with a revived spirit.

He leaned his head against the trunk of a tree and waited. When Canada opened his eyes again, the sky had already turned from periwinkle to indigo. The skaters on the lake had departed, leaving only two children throwing snowballs at each other. His heart felt simultaneously empty of pain and full of peace. For a moment, he simply listened to his own breathing, allowing himself to feel alive and well.

As if by a miracle, he was whole once more.

On his way down the winding path, Canada met a family of hikers from Quebec who chattered excitedly with him in rapid-fire French and then shared their sandwiches and a thermos of coffee with him. He had smiled at their stories and laughed at their jokes, and their companionship warmed him as much as did their coffee. For a moment, he had been sorry to part with them at the bottom of the mountain, but his regret quickly drowned in the river of joy he felt in his heart. With a final glance at the evening sky with its slowly emerging stars; the peaks with their snowy, cloudy cloaks; and the lake with its glowing castle, Canada smiled and whispered, "Thank you."

Upon returning to his car, the magic of his landscape lingering in his soul, Canada turned on his cell and found, to his surprise, a flood of messages. One from England apologizing (as best he could) and promising to trust him more, and one from America that, while still focusing on his "totally fanfreakingtastic" week, showed a hint of concern for his brother. Then several from different officials, including the Governor General, indicating that business would continue as usual after the weekend, with no apparent animosity following the events a few days ago.

And, best of all, one from France:

_Mon trésor, I must remind us both that you can talk to me whenever you want and that I am never too busy for you. Meet me this Tuesday in Gatineau for lunch?_

It seemed to Canada as he put his phone away that, face and heart glowing like the ice castle, the ethereal magic of his land had cast a spell on everyone.

For such was nature's purpose: to heal what had been broken and to make whole what had fallen to pieces.

* * *

I know everyone really seemed to like "Insides," but to be honest, this might be my favorite theme thus far. After the strangeness that was "Hours," this feels so much more like me. I had tons of fun writing it, since I actually grew up in Calgary (about an hour and a half from Lake Louise). I've been in the Chateau and the ice castle and even the exact path that Canada hikes up. I got to look at some of my old pics of the area for description purposes. How I miss my adopted country... (':

"**Weeks**" is up next. It will _tentatively _feature **America.****  
**


	8. Weeks

**Prompt: **Weeks

**Characters: **America-centric. The other members of the FACE family are kinda there but kinda not.

**Notes****: **Warning: pointless fic is pointless and is pure WAFF. Grab a blanket and coffee/tea/hot chocolate/the warm drink of your choice (well, unless you're in the middle of a heat wave like me, in which case you should exercise caution because I don't want anyone dying of heatstroke) and find a rainstorm or the sound of rain (look up Rainy Mood) and enjoy. (:

* * *

The moment he awoke, America knew his morning would be wonderful.

He opened his eyes slowly, stretching one arm above his head and groaning softly. His blankets enveloped him in a warm, comforting embrace, as if begging him to stay in bed and sleep the day away. The nation snuggled closer to his pillow, cradling it to his chest like a parent holding his child close. For a moment, he let his eyelids droop and his head go limp against his shoulder. He must have died and gone to Heaven, his bed felt so comfortable and his heart so at peace.

A few seconds later, however, America decided he must have been cast down to Hell, for he then heard the most dreadful sound in all the world: his alarm.

With a jolt, he sat up and glowered at the clock on his nightstand. Five a.m. Far too early for _anyone_ to be awake, much less America. He contemplated smashing the torture device or throwing it across the room and was on the verge of doing both at once when he had another epiphany: today was Labor Day. A federal holiday. His day off.

A wave of relief drowning his rage, America opted to turn off his alarm rather than destroy the clock (that would have to wait until tomorrow). Once more he snuggled beneath the covers and pulled the quilt over his head. With summer coming to an end and autumn slowly arriving, he would be wanting that quilt more than ever with the advent of cool nights and chilly mornings. For now, even in the summer heat, he kept it closely pulled around his head like a scarf or curtain separating him from the rest of the world and holding him secure in his dreams.

Then, the real magic began.

It started with a soft tap against his window and a sudden flash of light. America raised his head an inch and squinted at the window. A distant rumbling roughly five seconds after the light and a gentle pitter-pattering against the glass sent chills up his spine and brought a smile to his face.

It had been raining on and off in the capital for weeks. Most days, the storms had been an inconvenience during the nation's early morning commute, covering the streets with deep puddles and further clogging the jammed, busy highways. Now, America finally had a moment of peace in the middle of a busy workweek to steep himself in serenity and sleep, comfort and memories. As he closed his eyes once more, his heart dancing for joy at the sound of rain and thunder and the sight of the lightning he could behold even behind his eyelids, the nation lulled himself back to sleep with old stories from his childhood.

First, he whispered to himself in his mind the tale of the time England found him standing in the rain. The older nation had raced outside and gathered the little boy up in his coat and asked why on earth he had gone outside without shoes or an umbrella—"And in a thunderstorm, too!" In response, America had simply shrugged and said, "Because I wanted to know what it was and how I could make such a loud _boom_, too!"

America smiled to himself. No shortage of curiosity on his part—neither then nor now. Canada, however, had been different. Shortly after he had come to live with America and England, a series of thunderstorms had passed through the area where their house stood. Already lonely and frightened enough without the storms to terrify him further, Canada had hidden beneath his bed with a tear-soaked pillow and blanket and shivered violently as he had waited for the storms to pass. The weather had paid no heed to the child's suffering. America, on the other hand, had been more merciful. After he had stopped teasing his brother—"Oh, c'mon, it's just some water! You're being a baby!"—he had crawled underneath Canada's bed and lain down beside him.

"Hey, Canada, know what France told me about the rain?"

"Wh-what?" Canada had still clung to his pillow and tried to hide his face from his brother, but he had perked up slightly at the mention of his Papa.

"Well, he said the rain is just people in Heaven pouring buckets of water down on us, and the thunder and lightning come from the firecrackers they set off because they're so happy."

"Really?" Canada had opened his eyes wide.

"You bet! So I'm not afraid of the rain!"

"W-Well, I'm not, either!"

After that day, Canada had no longer feared thunderstorms but had instead rushed outside to play with his brother at the first raindrop or bolt of lightning (much to England's dismay).

The rain continued to fall in sheets, each droplet splattering against America's window and trickling down to the earth in a small stream, but the nation could hear it no longer except in his dreams. In his mind, he danced with his family under the holy water from Heaven and jumped in puddles in the saturated grass. Outside, the world continued to turn and the week dragged on as usual, but America remained curled up snug and safe in bed, dreaming of happiness and peace as he buried his face in his pillow and smiled in his sleep.

* * *

That bit about rain being people in Heaven emptying buckets of water on us? Yeah, that's what I believed when I was five or so. I thought if someone I loved died, he or she would pour a bucket of water down over me, and I would see it as rain. No one ever told me otherwise.

Up next is... **"Months!" **It will be focused on **England** and will be quite dismal. Unfortunately.


	9. Months

**Prompt: **Months

**Characters: **England-centric, with Canada playing a bit of a prominent role. France and America also appear. Other nations make cameos, but, contrary to what England thinks, they don't actually do anything.

**Notes**: Where to begin...

This fic as a whole is rated T, but this particular theme is probably closer to** M **for language, implied violence, and mature themes. There are also the following **trigger warnings **to bear in mind: eating disorders, self-harm, body dysmorphic disorder (BDD), and generally horrible things happening. **Please**, if any of these things would perturb you too greatly, turn back now. I'd rather have people looking after their emotional well-being than reading my fics. (:

* * *

It takes nine months to make a new person. Only nine months from start to finish, from dream and wish to reality and physicality. Nine months knits a body around a soul, limbs and sinews around a heart, a human being around two tiny cells. It turns love from a sensation and an act into a living, breathing, smiling, laughing _person_.

The first month, England tried his hardest to conceal everything. He bottled up his sadness, his insecurities, his fears and screwed the cap on tight. No one would see anything but good in him now—if they _could_ see any good in him at all.

But he let their words penetrate his façade. His tears lulled him to sleep at night as he replayed every insult in his mind over and over.

"Yo, eyebrows!"

"Maybe if you were a bit cuter, you wouldn't be all alone!"

"Your face looks like someone ran over it! Geez, smile or something."

"You have such chubby cheeks. Whatdja do, put too much sugar in your tea or something?"

England remembered each and every word, each look of disgust when someone saw his face or his body. No matter how subtle he or she tried to be, anyone who took even the slightest glance at him made a face as if about to vomit. He was disgusting. He looked disgusting and he felt disgusting and no matter what he did, he never got better.

That was about to change.

* * *

The second month, Canada noticed something was wrong. It was hard not to worry about the Englishman when his eyes had sunk into their sockets and had lost their shine and joy. Come to think of it, Canada hadn't seen England smile in such a long time. His face had lost all traces of emotion other than an all-consuming, overwhelming sadness and the occasional undertones of irritation.

"England?" Canada asked one afternoon after the other nations had left the room following another… _colorful _world meeting.

"Mmm." England barely mumbled a reply. He winced at Canada's hand on his forehead and prepared himself for a lecture on how ugly and gross he was.

Canada frowned—_I was right_, England thought.

"You don't look so good. Are you okay?"

_I knew it. He's just trying to make fun of me._

England's legs felt heavier underneath him, and his cheeks seemed larger and bulgier than ever. As Canada scrutinized him, he shivered on the outside and screamed on the inside. He wished he could tear away the fat on his body. Instead, he stood up and shoved Canada away as hard as he could.

"I'm fine. It's just—well, you see, I've caught the flu and haven't been well for a while now. Wouldn't want you to catch it, you know."

England shivered again for effect. A wave of dizziness overcame him, and he swayed back and forth as the room spun around him. His stomach lurched, and his limbs gave out.

When his eyelids fluttered open a moment later, England was securely held in Canada's strong arms, his head pressed against his shoulder. The Canadian was still frowning at him, one hand pressed to his forehead again and the other curled around his side. With a shudder—_I know exactly what he's thinking! Go on, say it! Tell me how ugly you think I am!_—England struggled to break free both from his physical prison and his emotional hell, but Canada and the demons possessing his mind held fast.

"England. You have a fever. I doubt you've eaten in days. You just fainted on me. You are not fine."

"What are you talking about? It's just the economy. Surely you've heard—"

"I don't care _what's_ causing it. You're sick. I'm getting you to bed. I bet you haven't even slept in days, you have such circles under your eyes."

_Circles under eyes._ England added Canada's comment to the long catalogue of his physical defects. There it went, right after the scar on his left ankle and the crookedness of his toes.

Canada wrapped an arm around England's shoulders and nearly started at how bony and sharp they felt. He hadn't thought his former caretaker's economy _this_ bad.

_He couldn't possibly…_

England wanted to cry of humiliation as Canada half-carried him out of the conference room. A few lingering nations—Spain, Russia, Germany—cast the duo a confused look that the Englishman saw as restrained laughter. Once he had disappeared into the elevator, they would laugh at him and mock his thick legs and protruding stomach. The moment he left, the younger nation would join their posse and giggle about how hard it had been to get _that lug_ up to his room.

England knew the things the other nations, his leaders, and even his people said behind his back. They played dumb for politeness' sake, but they all dragged him through the mud when they thought him out of earshot. Their words killed the nation slowly, squeezing out every drop of blood and every ounce of tissue, but right then, England would not have minded dying.

Canada's mind moved too fast for his mouth during the elevator ride to the fifth floor. Did England really have more than the flu? His forehead had been burning with the fire of a fever, certainly, and his fellow nation's chills and general malaise fit in with classic influenza symptoms. His weight—or lack thereof—had triggered Canada's suspicions.

As he pulled the older nation closer, trying to gauge his reaction, England let a tiny sobbing breath escape his lips. Silently, he swore at himself.

_You arse, you fuckhead, what the hell is wrong with you? This is why they make fun of you!_

Something, whether it was an eating disorder or not, was terribly wrong with England. Canada didn't have to rely on his wealth of medical knowledge to realize something more insidious than just the flu had gripped his family member.

A short while later, the two nations reached England's room. With some difficulty, England fished his keys out of his pants pocket and unlocked the door, which Canada closed behind them.

"Change your clothes and get in bed," the younger said. "I want you to get some sleep."

England balked. The last thing he wanted to do was strip in front of the large mirror in the bathroom. Well, not quite. The _very _last thing he wanted was Canada seeing his bare body and dying of laughter at how pathetic he looked. That thought made him want to vomit. Scared into obedience, he gathered up his pajamas—thick and bulky to hide his figure—and scurried into the bathroom. The door clicked shut, but he hadn't touched the handle at all. Surprised, England turned to find himself face to face with Canada.

"And just what the hell do you think you're doing?" England felt a dizzying rush of fear and horror grip him.

"You can hardly stand on your own," Canada said, his eyes full of concern, which England mistook for amusement. "I'm not going to trust you here by yourself. You could fall and hit your head."

"I'm _England_. For fuck's sake, Canada."

"I know. But right now, you are a very sick England. A very sick _Arthur_."

England clutched his pajamas with all the strength he had left. He would _not _back down.

"Cover your eyes."

"Sure." Canada did not have to see the other nation shirtless to confirm the damage—just as he did not have to ask England how he was feeling to notice his jittery, agitated emotional state.

"_Cover _them—"

"Done. See?" Canada held his hands over his closed eyes. England frowned and said nothing but turned his back to the mirror. His loose clothes pooled at his feet as he took a moment to inspect his belt and nearly hit himself with it.

_Still too big_, he told himself, even though this was the second belt he'd bought in the past month, having gotten too skinny for his old one.

Finally, after fussing with the buttons of his nightshirt for too long with his fumbling fingers, he said, "Fine, Canada, I'm done."

Canada concealed his shock upon seeing the elder nation's shrunken, hunched figure in the enormous clothes that normally should have been only a little too big. He kept his face calm and smiled as he offered him his shoulder for support. England rejected it. The sneer on his former colony's face confirmed his suspicions. His stomach rolled.

The moment his head hit the pillow, England only wanted as many sleeping pills as he could stomach without dying. Enough to send him into a deep coma, if nothing else. That'd be wonderful. Canada, on the other hand, insisted on milking the joke as long as possible. England watched with narrowed eyes as he placed a cold cloth on his forehead and smoothed his hair.

_At least it's not falling out_, Canada thought. _That's a good sign. Still…_

"Go away and leave me alone."

"Not yet. Can you do one last thing for me?"

England grumbled in response.

"You look so thin and hungry. Can you eat something?"

England caught his breath so suddenly that he began coughing. Canada reached out to help him but then thought better of it.

"Do _what_?" he asked between raspy breaths.

"You need to eat, England. You need to regain your strength, or you won't get better."

A moment of silence passed.

"Well… what did you have in mind?"

"I have a couple of cans of French Canadian pea soup back in my room." _Protein for muscles, sodium for electrolyte balance… should work well._

England rolled onto his side and mumbled, "Okay."

Once Canada left the room, taking England's key with him, England curled into a ball and buried his face in his knees. He didn't move until the Canadian returned with a hot—and large—bowl of soup.

"Sorry for taking so long." Canada set the soup down on the nightstand. "I had a hard time getting ahold of a bowl."

England glared. Canada raised an eyebrow.

"Do you need help or something?"

"No, I'm fine." England paused before putting the bowl in his lap. He had only one way left to throw off Canada. His hand shaking, his heart thudding, and his mind screaming, he raised the spoon to his lips.

His tongue tingled with the salty taste and thick texture. For canned soup, this was delicious. England took another mouthful and closed his eyes, savoring the sudden warmth flooding his body. He hadn't eaten in so long that the feeling of food in his stomach pushed all his insecurities away and smothered the continuously sneering voice in his mind. Within minutes, he had cleaned every last drop from the bowl.

"Thank you, Canada," he said, returning the dish. The nation took it with a satisfied smile.

"You're welcome. Two cans of soup—that should get your strength back up. I'll go return the bowl to Italy and then come back. Lie down for now."

He had eaten _how much_?

The euphoria of eating having worn off, the voice returned louder than ever. Had Canada not been there, England would have covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Two cans of soup? He had eaten that much? And Canada had seen him do it? And now he was going to go talk to Italy?

_Two whole cans_?

Canada's hand was on the doorknob when England croaked, "Hey, Canada?"

"Hm?" Canada turned to him. "Do you need something?"

"Well…" England took a deep breath. "I… I was wondering where Italy's room was. Since I'd want to go thank him and all."

"He's on the first floor on the other side of the hotel. I'll let him know you say hi."

Then, he left.

England's mind raced. He had to fix this. Even a spoonful of that soup had been too much. At the thought of Canada and Italy sniggering about what a glutton he had been and what a filthy pig he was, he began to hyperventilate.

The first floor. He was on the fifth. The elevator was slow. Italy was chatty.

He had time.

He knew what he had to do.

On trembling, aching legs, England dragged himself to the bathroom and locked the door in case Canada came back early. He sank to his knees in front of the toilet. How was he supposed to do this? Simply starving himself had been easier than throwing up. Never had he been able to force himself to do the latter—but if he had to decide between a little vomit and a lot of weight gain, the choice seemed obvious.

Slowly, he reached one finger into his mouth. The moment he touched the back of his throat, he gagged and lurched forward. Nothing came out. Paralyzed, he waited a moment before trying again, still to no avail, though he gagged even harder than before.

He could do this. Canada would return in only a matter of minutes. One way or another, he would get rid of the revolting heaviness in his stomach. He controlled every last hideous centimeter of his body.

He. could. do. this.

_Any fucker could._

England jammed two of his fingers down his throat until a lukewarm, chunky liquid filled his mouth. Finally, he threw up every last bit of the soup, the acid burning and drying his throat as he heaved and shook violently. Exhausted, he flushed away the yellow-green mixture that had brought him so much misery and rested his cheek against the seat.

_Good. That's one thing you can do right. Now get up before he finds you_.

England forced himself to his feet. After hurriedly running some water over his vomit-coated fingers, he stumbled back to his bed and, pulling the blankets up to his chin, closed his eyes. He felt wonderfully tired, refreshed, and capable. He had done it. He had control of himself. He could keep going.

When Canada returned, he found England sleeping with a smile on his face.

_I guess it must have been a bad case of the flu, after all._

Although Canada made a mental note to keep an eye on his fellow nation, he was none the wiser.

* * *

The third month, he sat naked in front of the mirror and sobbed.

The fourth month, America broke the silence.

"Dude… you okay?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Seriously, Canada told me—"

"Mind your own fucking business."

"Fine, but—"

"Why can't you just go back to being your obnoxious self? Why can't you ever _let me be_?"

"It was just a question. Geez, don't get so defensive."

"Fuck off, America."

* * *

The fifth month, they got together as a family after a G20 summit in the US. England had complained of a migraine to get out of going, but France had made such a fuss—"England, you'll turn into a dull shut-in if you don't get out more often!" "Don't make me drag you along!" "England, _darling_, you need more happiness in your life!"—that he finally gave in. Besides, if France had annoyed him, America had been positively _insufferable_, whining about how he never got to see his older brother anymore. Once England had shot back that his absence was because America only paid attention to himself, Canada had stepped in to break up the fight and had suggested that everyone calm down.

When all four finally collected themselves, they took a city train and walked a few blocks to a small, hole-in-the-wall diner in Philadelphia that America _insisted_ had the best hamburgers in the whole world. England could barely walk, his legs were so stiff and his bones so brittle. His body seemed weighted down and held back, as if he were walking through molasses. He strained to keep up with the others, but every time he caught up to them, he fell behind. After a few times, Canada noticed. He nodded to France; then, both of them slowed down their gait gradually until they were walking in step with England.

America, however, had missed the signal.

"Hurry up, you guys!" he called to them. "Why're you slowing down?"

Canada facepalmed. France took over deescalating the situation.

"We're tired, America. Not all of us are as energetic as you today."

America made a face but slowed to the pace of the others once he saw how tired England looked.

Unfortunately, the gesture only upset England more. He knew they, France and America in particular, just wanted to humiliate him. They stooped to his level only to gauge how bad he was so they could report on it later.

How much did they have to hate him to do this to him over and over?

Once they arrived at the restaurant, Canada sat beside England opposite France and America. He didn't fully trust the Englishman by himself, nor did he expect a peaceful evening if he let anyone else sit beside him. Not that he anticipated a cheery outing with his family; just the opposite, in fact. Something was clearly still bothering England, and Canada could tell that he might explode any second. Minimizing the damage and its impact struck him as more important than trying to prevent the inevitable.

When a waitress came to take their drink orders, England requested coffee, to America's surprise.

"No tea, Iggy?"

"No," he snapped back. "It tastes nasty over here. You and your people have no idea how to make a proper cup of tea."

America held up his hands. "Sorry—"

"And don't call me 'Iggy.'"

"It's okay, England," Canada said. He tried to think of a way to change the subject. "This all looks pretty good."

"Yep!" America said. "Philadelphia has some of the best places to eat."

"For once, I think I can agree," said France, more out of a desire to keep the peace than out of actual agreement.

England remained silent and blank-faced while the voices swirled about like a hurricane in his mind. No matter how he sat, he couldn't get comfortable. If he crossed his legs, his thighs rubbed together. If he kept them straight, they came too close and his calves touched. If he sat at an angle, his legs spread apart, he came too close to Canada. And then there was the problem of simply feeling hideous. That made him want to shiver and shake and just _die_.

"Arthur."

He didn't say a word or look up.

"Arthur."

Still he failed to notice.

"Arthur Kirkland!"

It took France shouting at him and Canada nudging him for England to hear his name.

"_What_?"

America pointed at the waitress, who had returned with their drinks and was now taking their orders. England's face went red. After a moment, he said, "I'm just fine with coffee, thanks."

"All right." The waitress left with a confused smile.

"England." France frowned. "You're really _à l'ouest. _You've hardly said a word, and—"

"What did you say?"

"He just meant you're a little out of it."

"I _know _what it means. I'm not _stupid_, Canada."

The moment he saw the pain in his former colony's eyes, England regretted his words. His heart plummeted into his growling stomach, which began lurching dangerously close to his throat.

"Be right back," he said, his words almost inaudible.

Canada stood up and walked to the side of the booth to let England out.

"Where's he going?" America asked once England was too far away to hear.

"Washroom, it looks like," said Canada.

"Can't we… do something for him?"

"I'll go after him if he's gone too long."

America nodded but found little comfort in Canada's words. France patted his shoulder.

* * *

In the men's washroom, England locked himself in the largest stall. His hands covering his face as if to hide from himself, he fell to the floor and began to cry. The whole world seemed simultaneously to crash around him and laugh at him.

_Only babies cry._

_Such a weakling._

_Aww, did I hurt its feelings?_

_I'm sick of you being so ugly and pathetic. Do you really think anyone loves or cares about you? Haha!_

England screamed as loudly as his raw throat would allow. The sound came out as a garbled, tiny screech, which only made him cry all the harder. Bits of drool rolled down his chin and mixed with snot and tears, eliciting crazed laughter from inside his mind.

He just wanted to die.

When he heard the door open, England couldn't decide if his heart ached from fear of being discovered or relief that someone, _anyone_, had come.

"England? England, I see your feet. I know you're here. It's all right. Please come out."

To England, Canada's voice was that of an angel. Still, he cowered in the corner, not entirely ready to trust him. Demons were angels, too.

"It's all right, England. It's just me, Canada."

Another sob escaped England's mouth.

"We can get through this together. You don't have to suffer alone."

Pressing his hands against the wall for support, England rose to his feet. His breaths came in short gasps and sobs that, despite his best efforts and the voices, he couldn't control. His bony fingers quivered as he undid the lock, and his eyes shut as he took a step forward and found Canada's chest.

"Hey, it's all right." Canada wrapped his arms around England's malnourished frame. No one could hurt him. No one would attack him except over Canada's—and then France's and America's—dead body. "You'll be okay now."

England grabbed Canada's jacket and screamed again. His colony held him tighter.

The two nations remained that way for some time, England struggling to quell the voices and his tears and Canada trying to calm his mind and soothe his soul. After a while, England spoke.

"A-Aren't you angry with me?"

"Angry?" Canada's heart skipped a beat. "Of course not! We're all so worried. No one's _angry_."

"You're not?"

"No."

"France?"

"No."

"America?"

"No."

"You don't hate me, either?"

"Not at all. We love you so much, England."

Canada was so warm, so comforting, that England feared he might fall asleep. The younger nation placed his cheek on the elder's bowed head.

"That's why we're here for you," he said. "Please, England. We want to help. Tell me the truth. Are you… Are you starving yourself?"

England shuddered. His mind went wild.

"No."

"England. England, England, England." Canada pressed him closer.

"I…"

He took a breath. He had soaked Canada's shirt with a mixture of body fluids, but the Canadian hardly minded. He stood still, silently encouraging England to continue. The emotional weight had simply become too much. Anyone would have cracked beneath it.

But not England.

"I… Canada, I just…"

"It's all right, England. You can tell me."

"Well… I don't have an _eating disorder_ or anything of the sort. I just… Well, first there was the flu, and then I began to have terrible anxiety and… I'm just depressed. I don't feel like eating most of the time. I started having to force myself to eat, and I just got tired of it after a while, so…"

He trailed off. A sob wracked his tiny frame.

"Hey, hey. You'll be fine. We've all been there, England. Every single one of us. We're going to get through this together, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

* * *

The sixth month, England decided he trusted the voices more than he did Canada.

The seventh month, he realized it wasn't enough to hate himself: he needed to hurt himself, too. He grew tired of fingernails and razor blades pretty fast and moved on to fists and matches next.

The eighth month, he became Narcissus—except that he despised the reflection staring emptily and lifelessly back at him.

* * *

The ninth month, he collapsed.

England forced his dying body out of bed at three a.m. in the middle of a thunderstorm. Although he was burning up from a fever and bleeding due to his daily self-injury ritual, he made himself pull on his shoes and socks to go running. He'd had a spoonful of sugar in his tea last night—one spoonful too many. Now he had to work it off lest he gain a single pound. No. No gains. Just losses.

He locked his front door behind him and walked down his porch to the rhythm of the chanting voices in his mind.

_Fuckhead._

_Weakling._

_Minger._

The rain came down in sheets and ran down his driveway into the dark street. Thunder exploded overhead. England didn't want to run. He didn't want to go inside. He didn't even want to go back to sleep.

He just wanted to give up and _die_.

_Go on. You don't even deserve to exist. Get out of my sight. Go to hell, if they'll even take you._

England closed his eyes, held his breath until it hurt, and fell face-first onto the concrete.

_Good riddance_.

* * *

A drop of water hit his face, then another. England was confused. Could he still be in the thunderstorm?

No, that was impossible. He could hear Canada somewhere far away. And—he was crying?

"England—this is all my fault. All—my—fault! _All—mine_!"

Then, England heard France whispering soothing words to Canada, but he could console neither himself nor his son.

And now—someone was holding his hand. Squeezing it gently, reassuringly, as if trying to channel all his strength into his half-dead body.

"C'mon, Iggy. C'mon."

_America…_

England struggled. Try as he might, however, he simply could not wake up. Something was holding him back. No matter how much he fought, how long America held his hand, how hard Canada sobbed, he could not escape the darkness.

Someone opened a door. America gripped England's hand tighter. A woman began speaking to someone, presumably France.

"Yes, yes, well… We put him in a shallow coma for now. We'll see how he progresses from there. He'll live, but recovery will… be difficult."

Several more tears splashed onto his face.

England gave up the battle. He only wanted to sleep now that his idea of dying had been dashed and a painful awakening awaited him.

It takes nine months to create a person. A loving, singing, dancing, living person.

It took nine months to destroy a person. A crying, hating, suffering, _dying_ person.

* * *

When I said this was going to be quite dismal, yeah, I didn't really anticipate a lot of this. There are tons of fics written about England having an ED; given that fact, I wanted it to be America, since the US has the highest rate of eating disorders in the world. Because I threw BDD into the mix, though, it just didn't strike me as IC for America to have something like this. England, though? Yeah, I could kind of see that happening, I guess.

Also, I included this headcanon of mine in "Insides" as well as in this theme, but I never really mentioned it. I think Canada is probably one hell of a medic because of his health care.

**Slang/Translation/_Relevant_ Notes in General:**

To be _à l'ouest, _as Canada so nicely translated for us in-fic, means to be out of it. I think it also carries the connotation of being crazy, which explains why it set England off.

_Minger_ is a British slang term for someone who is incredibly ugly. I double- and triple-checked this one (_so please don't be wrong I'm just a silly little American who doesn't get to partake in your awesome slang_).

_Body dysmorphic disorder_ is comorbid with 25 percent of anorexia nervosa cases. It is an extreme form of poor body image, leading to the sufferer being so upset with his or her appearance that s/he gets suicidal thoughts, can no longer participate in social events, etc. Along with anorexia, this is what England suffers from in this fic (yeah, he purged once, I know. One time doesn't mean it's not anorexia).

My prayers and love to anyone who suffers from eating disorders. I danced for ten years, did gymnastics for eleven, and ice skated for four. I'd be lying if I said I didn't try to starve myself at least a half dozen times and never saw anyone around me struggle with an eating disorder.

**Years **is coming next and will be a **happy** (!) fic featuring **France.**


	10. Years

**Prompt: **Years

**Characters**: France, Jeanne d'Arc, peripheral!England

**Notes: **I'm really sorry I didn't post this as soon as I wanted to. Life got/is getting/is going to get in the way.

I also think I need to clear something up: I'm not writing this fic as FrUK. A lot of people write the FACE family that way, but I'm not. Just so everyone is aware. (:

* * *

She was gone.

Not a piece of her had been spared. Not a shred of her clothing, not a lock of her hair, not a sliver of her skin. Not her girlish giggle, not her determined battle cry, not even her beautiful voice.

All of her had been reduced to ashes blown about in the wind as her torturers tossed her remains into the Seine—a river meant to foster peace and prosperity, not to devour the remnants of the only just woman in the land. He had heard her scream as her body had burned and her soul had ached. When she had first called for a crucifix, two clergymen had found her one, but they had handed it over to him at his request. Only he could have performed this final favor for his lady. Only he could have eased her pain. In a crowd swollen with jeering, mocking enemies, only he had loved her—truly, purely, fully.

And painfully.

She had raised her eyes. Nation and leader had shared one final glance. He had looked into her face—dead but alive, frightened but resolute, pained but elated. She had worn the look of all martyrs, that of being caught between two worlds: the human and the divine, the disgusting and the graceful, the real and the still more real yet. He had even thought he had seen a hint of a smile—half-earthly and half-heavenly—on her pale face.

He could never have hoped to hold so saintly a gaze.

He had let his chin sink against his chest, his eyes filling with tears of joy and fear and sorrow and hate, but not before smiling as best he had been able to at her.

_France, did you know? The saints tell me I'll be one of them soon._

_I am afraid to die. I was also afraid to leave my family and follow the path of a warrior. But on that path, I met you—as I will see God at the end of my execution._

_We triumphed before, France. Together. We will be victorious again, but you on earth and I in Heaven._

Even as she had screamed and struggled, neither France nor Jeanne had faltered. He had held the crucifix, clinging to it as he had wept and hid his face. She had stared straight ahead and fixed her eyes on the image until they closed for the last time in death.

There had been nothing left.

* * *

France had been sitting alone in the square for hours, his cloak pulled tightly around his bowed head to conceal both his grief and his identity. Certainly, no one in Rouen could have known him, but the nation had learned not to take his chances or count on his luck. She had tried to change that. Persuaded him to trust in infinitesimals in the face of infinities, to place his bets on the impossible and rig the game of war in his favor with determination and divine assistance.

And look where such gambling had gotten them both. Once or twice, hope had been worth the risk. Perseverance and spunk had won them Orléans. Pure grit had cornered the English and driven them back. Even sheer gumption (along with some signs from God for good measure) had convinced Charles to take the crown.

The joy each of those accomplishments had roused in France's discouraged heart seemed as nothing in the face of his loss. Perhaps the proper units with which to measure the life of a nation were not moments of glory and triumph but times of trouble and woe. Maybe France's existence was just a sum of sorrowful deaths with all laughter and smiles subtracted out. And could her life have been the same? Nineteen years she had lived—sixteen of pastoral simplicity and domestic delight and three of war and intrigue and blood.

Jeanne had not been condemned for the first sixteen, France knew. All her happy years mattered as much as seeds scattered in the wind without a place to land. Only the last three had damned the young woman. Even if her whole life had been happy up until that moment, she had still met a sad end.

No, France realized, not even an enormous number of carefree years could somehow make up for the sadness in one's life. One tear weighed the same as one thousand laughs. Three years had made her a heretic, and a few months had sent her to the stake. Those three years had granted him priceless victories, and only half an hour had undone it all.

France could not bear to look at the square with its smoldering pyre any longer, nor could he withstand the searing looks of the English. For the most part, the crowd had watched the execution and then returned to their daily lives. Death had become routine. No fear or fuss for them. In some ways, it had even become a game, with children and peasants as pawns facing down kings and queens on a bloodied chessboard. The little ones could be pushed around so easily but, if they made it across the unlevel playing field, could become powerful. More often, however, they were used as cheap sacrifices, and, despite their apparent prestige, no king or queen could move fast enough (or wanted to) to save them from war, disease, or accidents.

Jeanne had been a pawn herself once. She had found her way across the board (or had been guided there) and become a queen—but her power had damned rather than saved. And somewhere above the board, France watched helplessly, at times unsure if he played against England or against God.

The young country wandered through the village. He hardly noticed where he was walking, nor did he care. Somehow, he had to get back to his men camped nearby, but what did he care for war anymore? Originally, he and England had fought to protect themselves and their people. Each battle France won added another plank to the bridge stretched across the chasm of war, another chance to buy himself and his people a moment of security. Yet the very planks Jeanne had laid had betrayed her even as she had created and shaped them, leaving a gap through which the abyss had swallowed her whole.

France slinked past the heavy village gate and made his way up the well-trodden path to Heaven only knew where. The countryside seemed to tingle with magic, a sensation France normally would have hated but now found both comforting and captivating. Each blade of grass stood upright despite the wind—but even that had begun to come to a standstill, almost as if holding its breath. The trees were equally motionless and silent to the point that France could have sworn he heard the movement of water through each individual leaf. His own breathing and the increasingly loud pounding of his heart sounded sacrilegious in the silence so profound it felt preternatural.

Either England was trying to cast a spell to ensnare him (_trying_), or something inhuman had possessed the land. Even the sun had begun to shine more brightly, although a cluster of dark clouds had settled over the village like a thick, heavy ceiling. The sunshine warmed the nation's exhausted, pained body and evaporated any thoughts of fear. Whatever sort of magic this was, it meant no harm. Perhaps it originated in his own mind as a trick of an imagination desperate to find something to celebrate and rejoice over. If that turned out to be true, France found no reason to stymie his delusional head and heart. As long as it lasted, he might as well enjoy it—or try to, at least. His "happiness" parodied true joy, which in turn parodied reality.

Joy was just a mockery.

"Hey."

It was Jeanne's usual greeting—short and simple but beautiful as the salutation of any angel. France knew it well, had memorized each intonation and sound that composed the word.

And now his mind had stumbled upon his memories of her speech and tried to bring life to the dead.

Had he not felt so happy, he probably would have thought himself pathetic.

"Hey. Can you not hear me?"

_Can you not hear me_. That was new.

"France."

There was his name—soft and sweet and _oh how he missed her and loved her and longed for her_—just as he remembered.

"Over here. To your left. Behind the tree."

France looked over his shoulder. One tree stood apart by itself, towering above all the rest that circled the village. He closed his eyes and basked in the sunlight for a moment. _Nothing to fear_.

With slow steps, the nation walked toward the tree. The warmth from the sun seemed to penetrate his skin and curl around his soul, putting his heart at ease despite his sorrow. Something from without calmed him within.

He couldn't possibly be imagining this.

Then, France heard a laugh from behind the thick trunk. If not for the peace deep in his heart, he would have expected to find England mocking him high up out of reach in the branches.

Instead, he found something even more unlikely.

Standing with her hands clasped in front of her and a huge grin on her face was Jeanne. And yet it could not be Jeanne, for this woman wore a flaming crown and a dress that seemed to have been fashioned from the stars. Even so, her laugh and her smile, her eyes and her hair, even the way she looked at France and waved to him—they could not have been imitated by anyone or anything.

Except his own imagination.

"Not bad," he said to himself. "Not bad at all."

The woman frowned. France wondered what kind of game his mind was preparing.

"Do you really not know me?"

The question made France raise an eyebrow. He had trapped himself: if he claimed not to recognize her, his reason might catch up to his imagination, but if he said he knew her, he would only embroil himself deeper in his crazed mind. He took a breath, his pulse quickening at the thought of losing her.

"Well… it _is_ difficult to believe."

"Difficult to believe? Oh, France, if you never believed me once in my life, believe me now. I'm more real than ever."

"Real?"

"Don't you remember?" She laughed again, apparently oblivious to his confusion. "When you visited me in secret near the end of the trial, when I said I would recant? I told you I'd see you again. I didn't mean at the execution."

France awoke from his confused stupor as suddenly as if someone had poured a bucket of frigid water over his head.

_What do you mean, Jeanne? Tell me!_

_You will see me in time._

_I don't understand. How can you expect me to?_

She flashed him the same playful, gentle smile she'd given him then, and he knew.

"Jeanne!" France leaped forward and tried to gather her up in his arms and spin her around in the air—but couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she said. France's eyes widened a little. "For now, you won't be able to touch me. There will come a day when my soul will seek my body, but right now, we can only speak with each other."

Hurt though he was, France nodded.

"My lady—my Jeanne—I do not even know what to say."

They smiled in unison, though not so much out of amusement as out of joy, the true joy that Jeanne felt and that France fervently wished he could believe in.

"Oh, if only I could tell you everything," she said, casting her gaze upward toward something wonderful that France could not see. Her eyes seemed to meet those of someone else, and the intensity of the love in her face told the nation that she had never been his in the first place.

"If only I could spend eternity listening."

And if only he could take her hands in his that moment—but no. He would not separate his beloved from hers.

"Well, you have a piece of eternity now for my message."

"You have a message for me?" France sat down beside the tree. Jeanne followed suit, smoothing her spangled gown.

"My life's whole purpose _was_ to grant you victory in this war."

France looked back at the village and sighed.

"That's just it. We haven't won, my maid. Without you, we cannot. What hope have we?"

Again Jeanne gazed upward. Her face glowed more brightly than the fires that had consumed her body.

"Have you learned nothing, France?" Her eyes—as determined and fierce as ever—met his. "The victory will be yours. The English will fall. What does my death mean? The loss of one warrior does not automatically turn the tide."

"But..." His protests seemed childlike in the face of her wisdom, a virtue France had long admired. "Jeanne, your death destroyed our hope. You were our—my—reason to continue this war. We were so happy, but then—it was gone."

This time, when she laughed, it seemed more to mock (though gently) than to console.

"I brought you another Hope. Just because I'm gone doesn't mean It is. It never leaves you, never abandons you."

She put her hand over France's, just a feather's breadth above it. Although he could not feel her, he knew her touch must have felt so comforting, so light. It had always returned his strength just when he had needed it most.

"All the world's a wheel, France," Jeanne said. France nodded, begging her to continue. The war was only a distant dream now, a speck of dust in the face of eternity. "We go through cycles of joy and pain. What begins must end. But if we have a happy beginning—and we do, oh, how we do—we must have a happy ending."

France felt as though Jeanne had ripped his heart out of his chest, examined and diagnosed every defect, and then put it back together better than it had been even before the war.

"Take courage, France. You will fight a great many more wars. Some you will win; others you will lose. You will rise, and you will fall. But I will protect you until the end of the world."

She rose to her feet, her crown shining and her skirts billowing about her. France stood beside her, wanting to speak, but she interrupted him.

"It's time for me to leave again. That hasn't changed. Still I willingly do the bidding of Another."

She turned to France, expecting to find him gazing wistfully at her. Jeanne could see no traces of sadness or sorrow in his eyes, only joy. Real, authentic joy.

"I believe you now," the nation said, looking upward though he saw nothing but the sky. As much as he wished to say, "I love you," he knew those words were not his to speak to her. Even so, he thought she understood somehow. She always did.

"You will be a great nation someday," Jeanne whispered. "You will experience many things. Just remember that, no matter what, I—We—will be watching over you and guiding you, no matter how dire the struggle. There will be Hope in the years to come."

Then, she was gone.

"_Hear then how Love paid homage to this lady: / in human form I saw him weeping there / beside the stilled image of her grace; / and often he would raise his eyes toward heaven / where that sweet soul already had its seat / which once on earth had worn enchanted flesh." (Vita Nuova, Dante)_

* * *

Historical Notes:

Joan of Arc (Jeanne d'Arc) was a young French woman born near the end of the Hundred Years' War. From the age of 12, she heard voices she believed to be from certain saints (Margaret, Catherine, and Michael, I think) calling her to lead the French against the English. She greatly boosted morale, winning many crucial battles for the French (most notably Orléans) and even convincing the reluctant Charles VII to take the throne. The English captured her and, after convicting her of heresy, burned her at the stake in Rouen. Catholics consider her a saint, and she is one of the many patrons of France.

I'm pretty certain I'm the first person ever to use a quote from Dante as the epigraph (is it still an epigraph if it comes at the end?) of a Hetalia fic. :D I picked it because I imagined France's love for Jeanne as quite similar to Dante's love for Beatrice. I tried to portray it that way here.

**"Red"** is coming next. It'll be a **Hetaoni-based** fic featuring the whole family. I think you can figure out where this is going.


	11. Red

**Prompt: **Red

**Characters: **FACE, the Hetaoni nations

**Notes****: **Ermhermdederm. Let's see.

This chapter is Hetaoni-based, yes, but never fear: it's completely free of spoilers. If you haven't watched or played Hetaoni, you can still read it, though I'd suggest familiarizing yourself with the concept so you're not totally lost. If you feel like having your heart ripped out, chewed up, and then regurgitated, then sure, you can go watch/play the whole thing.

Oh, and watch out for a heavy dose of violence and mature themes here, if you find such things disturbing.

* * *

"Run!"

The word pierced the air and stabbed each nation in the heart. The sound of Italy—sweet, gentle Italy—screaming always sent shivers down their spines. Now his voice shot adrenaline through their veins and made them dizzy with suffocating fear that simultaneously coiled around their stomachs and forced their legs to move in a dead run for the door. Germany and Prussia sprinted on either side of Italy, who clutched the heavy key close to his chest, with Japan in hot pursuit. As agreed, France and England formed the back of the group, America and Canada immediately in front of them, so close England was nearly stepping on Canada's heels.

"Come on!" England shouted. "Almost there—we can make it!"

It took all America's strength to control his pace. Had he been running as fast as he could, he'd have plowed down Germany long ago. He had to summon every ounce of discipline not to move any faster—but he hardly wanted to lead the group if his family had to stay behind to guard against the enemy. A true hero protected his loved ones faithfully, no matter the personal cost.

France thought he was more worried than the rest until he saw England wince and shiver, his face going pale.

"_Ça va_?"

"I can feel it coming closer. No way we can outrun it."

"Keep trying. Can you stop it?"

"Not unless you want me to pass out."

England winced again. He could hear the Thing drawing nearer. Within moments, the stairs began to shake as it descended after them. A few feet ahead, Italy had just reached the end of the short staircase.

"England, we'll catch you. America can carry you the rest of the way."

"I can't afford to slow him down!"

"America is plenty fast."

As he looked over his shoulder, England caught a glimpse of grey flesh.

His own safety be damned. If he had any chance to save the others, he had to take it—and accept any consequences.

England tried to summon every usable ounce of magic in his body. For a second, he closed his eyes and focused in a last-ditch effort to buy them more time—a priceless commodity they had exhausted long ago. If he could just concentrate hard enough, could just use enough of his power, he could end this nightmare. He wouldn't have to sleep with one eye open or wake up sweating after another dream about losing America or fight some demon straight from a Lovecraftian tale.

The chance to save their lives rested on his shoulders.

"_Expec_—"

He blew it.

It wasn't Canada's fault: he had been running as fast as ever, keeping pace with his brother. And yet the blame did not lie with England, who had been moving more slowly, if anything. Regardless of who caused the accident, England still stepped on Canada's shoe and tripped over him mid-spell, sending them both crashing down the flight of stairs. America and France reached out to grab them but missed, their fingers unable to find something to clutch.

"Are you all right?" America jumped down the last five stairs and raced to the two entangled nations. His heart sank when he saw England's eyes were closed and his body limp. Simply summoning his magic had been enough to knock him out, even if he hadn't been able to finish the spell.

France felt the Thing breathing on the back of his neck.

"There's no time!" he yelled—then, when he saw China and Russia turn back to help, "Go, damn it, _go_!"

"Where are France and the others?" came Italy's cry, which quickly escalated into a panicked shriek. "America? England? Canada?"

The Thing loomed over France as it reached the room at the end of the staircase. Canada shuffled on his hands and knees and pushed himself along with his feet until he reached the wall. America picked up England and carried him in his arms, relieved to feel the tickle of his breath against his hand. Then, he braced himself, as did the others.

"Sorry, Italy," said France with a frown. "We're going to have to catch up later."

The Thing struck first, its enormous claws bared as it reached for America. His teeth clenched, his face set, his body tense and his nerves steeled, he waited until the last possible moment and then ducked, pressing England's face protectively against his chest.

A thin line of blood dripped down his chin where the Thing had sliced his face, but America remained otherwise unscathed. England still held securely, he shook off the blow and began fishing for his gun in its holster.

_Shit_.

America's weapon of choice must have fallen out somewhere: his fingers met only leather and empty space when they finally found the side pocket on his belt. A drop of sweat mixed with the blood on his face. A few feet in front of him, the Thing made a gruesome face like a twisted grin and lunged again.

Unconscious and weaponless, the two nations could be defeated easily and mercilessly. If it couldn't have the whole treasure trove of victims, it might as well enjoy a few select jewels. The blood of a family tasted sweetest, especially one as desperate to protect each other as this one.

_Save England first_, America thought. He braced himself for another strike as he searched for somewhere to place the older nation or someone to give him to.

"Canada!" America jumped this time both to avoid the monster's blow and to edge closer to his brother. "Here, take England!"

"No!" Canada accepted the nation's unconscious body even as he protested. "I'm not going to sit back while—America!"

The Thing rammed the American against the wall, smashing his glasses in the impact. He opened his mouth in a cry of pain, but no sound came out. His knees shaking, he crumpled to the floor.

Canada rushed to his brother's side as France leaped onto the creature's back and slashed away a hunk of the goose-grey flesh with his sword. He had been waiting for his chance to attack without hurting either America or England, but the Thing had been far quicker than anyone had remembered. Its assault on America had taken ten seconds, if not even less.

_Run. Run and don't look back._

Those words, the sacred covenant that had kept their plan alive, now seemed foolhardy and yet brave. Foolhardy because they would likely sentence him and his family to death, but brave because they would save the others.

The monster threw France off quickly, but not before it had received some damage. Even so, within moments, the oozing flow of blood had halted to a tiny trickle.

_It can heal its wounds now?_

France chewed the inside of his cheek.

On the other side of the room, America tried to pull a chunk of glass from his right eye, but Canada stopped him

"Don't touch it." His voice shook. Blood dribbled onto the floor from America's eye and the lacerations on his face. Damn it. "Don't you dare touch it."

Canada's mind hopped from thought to thought like a crazed drunk. France couldn't fight alone: the Thing had him cornered, and every time his blade sunk into its flesh, it bled a little and then healed itself. England hadn't regained consciousness. America had large shards and thousands of granules of glass blinding him. It was two on one, two nations versus something ten countries fighting together hadn't been able to defeat.

He didn't consider giving up for a second. Not when his Papa stood clutching his bleeding arm and battling some abomination from a completely different sphere of being.

"Take care of him," he said to America and England both as he entered the fray, bow and arrow at the ready.

"Am I ever glad you're here," France said.

The Thing did not turn to face Canada. It could get rid of the weird blond one without having to deal with the annoying quiet one. What threat could a few tiny sticks pose?

"Go, Kumajirou!"

The room erupted into flame as the little bear leaped up the stairs out of nowhere and shot a fireball at the monster. Both hands over his eyes to protect them from the light and the smoke, France hopped out of the way, although Canada had so directed his pet as to keep the other nation out of danger. The Thing screamed—a guttural sound that shook the mansion as if it were at the epicenter of an earthquake—as it burned. It tore its flesh with its claws and teeth in a mad effort to extinguish the blaze.

His bow taut as his heartstrings—had England awakened? how was America? France? could they escape? where were the others?—Canada began to shout, "Go!"

The word froze in his throat like a rock in a glacier.

The fire had not stopped the Thing. No flame could deter the inexorable. Instead of giving them a chance to escape, Kumajirou and Canada's attack—carefully choreographed from the moment the nations had settled on their plan to steal the key and flee the hell that had trapped them—had enraged the creature and made it even more violent, if such a thing were possible. Its screech deepened into a roar that the nations gathered outside heard with dread.

"No!" Italy dashed toward the door with uneven steps. Japan grabbed one of his arms; Germany held him by the shoulders with his huge, strong hands. "We have to help them! We said we'd all make it out together! It—was—a—promise!"

"Italy." Prussia placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed. He struggled to console both himself and the panicked country. The slight crack in his voice betrayed his fear. "We have to trust them. They are strong."

Deep down, he knew no words would suffice. Only the smiling faces of France, America, Canada, and England greeting them at the entrance of the mansion could calm the anxiety devouring their hearts. Prussia and the others had played their parts in this rigged roulette; now, their friends had to stay for one more all-or-nothing round. One that was in their power neither to watch nor to influence. Their fate had become a catbox closed to outside aid. The tiniest wrong move within or without would end it all.

Italy bowed his head and wept.

He had failed again.

* * *

"Mm…"

England stirred. He fought for air, his lungs burning as though Death itself had lit them aflame and now crouched on his chest. Exhausted, he opened his eyes to fuzzy shapes with ill-defined edges. Something black curled around a circular object that seemed to be skewered with bits of reddish black stained glass. He coughed as a rancid smell violated his nostrils. He tried to identify it—blood? smoke? vomit?—but his stomach protested with pitching and churning. Instinctively, he rolled onto his side and took a deep breath through his mouth. Something brushed his shoulder, then grabbed it and began to drag him through the hazy sea of shapes and darkness. He mumbled in annoyance, but he was only yanked all the faster in response. Then, even worse, something shook him.

"England?"

At the sound of his name, he shut his eyes and forced them open again. His heart contracting, he snapped back into complete consciousness, as if America's voice had resurrected him.

"America—oh, no, you're hurt!"

He raised his hand to wipe the blood from beneath the younger nation's glass-studded eye, but America brushed it away. He pulled England to his feet as he stood up, his back pressed against the wall for support.

"Are you all right?" England stared wide-eyed at America's purple-and-red-splotched face. Deep in his gut, he knew this had to be his fault. He must have botched the spell somehow. He might as well have been the one to drive each shard of glass into the other nation's face, the one to awaken the Thing in the first place, the one to damn them all to a prison worse than Hell itself.

"I—I'm so sorry."

"What for?" America managed a smile. "You're worth a few bits of stuff in my eye."

He didn't tell England that he had already lost his vision in his right eye and was beginning to go blind in his left as well. Not because he begrudged him—what were his eyes in comparison to England's life?—but because he wanted to bear that burden alone. If suffering were an ocean, they all swam and sank together, but this injury was something America had to dam up to keep the waves from spilling over and drowning England. For the moment, at least. With all his remaining strength, he tossed him a life raft: a laugh.

"We're just a little delayed, that's all. We'll be out of here real soon."

England had no sooner grabbed the precious vessel when a yell jerked him out of security and peace (or whatever counterfeits thereof he'd taken refuge in).

"Canada!"

Then, a deafening roar.

Both nations covered their ears, and their eyes widened as they saw the Thing—flaming—charge Canada and his bear.

"Canada!" France yelled again from the corner of the room.

One eye shut and his tongue curled over his upper lip, Canada fired an arrow straight into the monster's face. It did not stop or check itself at all, even when he shot a flurry of arrows into its torso.

"What's happening?" America asked, unable to see his brother clearly but fearing the worst. He went cold from a heart-stopping chill creeping through his body.

With one swipe of its searing claws, the Thing sent Kumajirou crashing through the wall and down the stairs. Canada heard but one lonely whimper from the bear.

Desperate, France threw his sword at the creature's back. Although the blade pierced deep into its body, the Thing merely grunted. Then, it jumped into the air above Canada.

Time froze in an eerie tableau.

Weaponless, France screamed his son's name as he ran to save him—but not fast enough.

Canada tossed his bow and quiver behind him to America and England. He knew he would need his weapons no longer. Already he had reconciled himself with the idea of death. The moment he had understood the magnitude of the danger threatening his family, he had prepared himself for the sacrifice, like Isaac meekly walking to the slaughter while bearing his own pyre. The others would not notice his absence. He could brave the pain. Now the only question left was whether the Thing would crush him to death or burn him alive.

America stepped toward his brother, ready to push him out of the way though he knew not where Canada stood. He reached out a hand and groped about wildly, but his fingers met only the back of England's head and his arm, which restrained him.

England smiled.

The time had come for his last moments, for his end. America had been right to say they would be leaving soon, three of them from the mansion and one of them from life altogether. In the midst of their hopelessness, he would become their hope, their salvation, their sacrifice.

His magic tingled at his fingertips as he summoned every last bit of his power, even that which he should not have been able to use.

England only prayed that he had enough to give.

The nation lifted his hand and closed his eyes after looking one last time at his family. They were beautiful, he knew—each one of them. Even France. He had tried so hard during the battle to save Canada. And what of America? He'd given up his eyes and suffered immense pain just to give England a shot at survival. Even as he sealed his fate and carried out his sentence, he more than treasured his former colony's gift. To sacrifice oneself for the love of others was to perfect one's life.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

The Thing froze just above Canada, who sprang out of the way and whirled to stare at England. His eyes remained closed.

"No."

_"France, if it comes down to it and I—well, if something happens—take them and _run_."_

_"Please don't look back. Don't wait for me."_

_"I _will _protect you all."_

France clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Wish—could—more—"

England crumpled to the floor in a cold heap.

"I-Iggy…?"

Trembling, America sank to his knees and reached out his hands, searching for the fallen nation.

He never found him.

Shocked though he was, Canada managed to have enough presence of mind to know they had barely enough time to escape. He threw his arms around America and pulled him away, his vision blurred by the tears welling up in his eyes.

"_England!_"

France on his heels, Canada tightened his grip around his brother's waist and dragged him screaming and struggling down the last flight of stairs. The exit was so close now, just within reach. England's death would not be meaningless—no, France and Canada knew, they would not allow such blasphemy.

But something else would.

"Watch out!"

The moment France saw the ceiling begin to crack, he pushed the brothers out of the way toward the door. His heart wanted to focus on England's death, wanted to bemoan the loss of his friend and _grieve_ for him. His mind, scattered as his thoughts were, demanded otherwise. He had to get America and Canada to safety first.

That would prove to be much more difficult than he expected.

The Thing crashed through the ceiling, littering the floor with smoldering wood like a minefield. The monster had managed to put out the fire burning its body, but it presented no less of a threat. While England's spell had weakened it—_God rest your soul, you did so well for us, England_—France saw its infuriated eyes and exposed, dripping teeth and prepared himself for a still more difficult fight.

With one major disadvantage, of course: his lack of a weapon. Whereas Canada had remembered to snatch up his bow and quiver before grabbing America, France had been too stunned (and, perhaps, scared) to pull his sword out of the Thing's side.

Well. England had died, he lacked a weapon, America was blind, and Canada couldn't fight while protecting both himself and his brother.

All seemed hopeless.

Still, France clenched his fists and metamorphosed his grief into rage. Across the room, Canada held America firmly. Father and son communicated through a series of facial expressions—a raised eyebrow and a frown, a nod and a smile—and the younger suddenly felt safer than he had for a long time. Even without words, France could comfort and reassure him in the face of all his worries.

_This is not the end_, Canada swore to himself as he released America, who put his hands over his eyes and tried not to wince at the pain stabbing him inside and out. England was gone. His Iggy had died trying to save them. He had just told him moments ago—_promised_—that they would all be safe together soon. _He _should have died instead. _He _should have pushed Canada out of the way. _He _should have let them escape and taken on the Thing alone. Wasn't it half his fault that they were here, anyway?

"Don't, Canada. Don't do it, France."

Canada stood his ground and shoved his brother backward, bow borne on his shoulder. France took a deep breath. No matter what, they would save each other.

"Don't do it."

Canada held the bow in place, aimed, and launched an arrow.

Though the Thing suffered no damage despite the direct hit to its gut, it decided to attack Canada first. Those pesky little sticks were such an annoyance. If it could finish off the only armed one first, there would be no fight left. Killing the remaining two would take no effort. Besides, the one with the arrows had the blind one to care for. Such a handicap would surely doom him.

Canada shot another volley of arrows—one in each of the monster's knees, one in its face, one in its chest. He grimaced upon realizing what little effect his attacks were having. Maybe if he could get just a bit closer…

Glancing back at America, who kept trying to break free of him and run into the middle of the clash (_don't be a fool, America—you're going to get yourself killed_), the nation moved closer to the creature. He shot France a look—_cover us if you can; I'll distract it_—and with a fervent prayer that he could be quick enough, he ran in an arc beside the Thing until he stood in its shadow. It lashed out at Canada's face with a blow strong enough to smash him into the wall, but he dodged smoothly and dove to the side. France seized his chance and ran from behind to retrieve his sword.

He missed.

The Thing had heard him approach and jumped out of the way just before the nation's fingers could grasp the hilt. Its turn had come to make a game-changing move—game-changing for America, at least.

The moment the blind country had heard his brother's footsteps moving away from him, he had done the very thing Canada had silently implored him not to do: he had followed. Tried to, at least. His hearing hadn't been sharp enough to tell where exactly Canada had gone, and instead of taking a moment to listen and figure out his brother's whereabouts, he had ignored his head and pursued his panicked heart straight into the middle of the conflict. Directly in front of the Thing.

America knew neither where he stood nor what he should do. Without a way to attack or defend or even a plan at all, he was an easy target.

_Too easy_.

As Canada released his last arrow, he noticed his brother out of the corner of his eye at the same time the monster saw him standing sightless and defenseless. Canada saw the creature reach around its huge back and yank out France's poppy-red blade.

Crippled by the sacrifice of his sight, America reached out to get his bearings. The Thing breathed nearby, growling with every _twang _of Canada's bowstring. To his left, someone panted and kicked something heavy away from him.

There it was—his weapon.

America bent down and grabbed two planks of wood in each hand. The hot material burned him through his gloves, but the pain hardly mattered anymore. Winding up as if to pitch a fastball, America hurled the makeshift projectiles in the direction of the breathing. One grazed Canada's head and another two went wide, but the fourth caught the Thing right on its forehead. With a howl, it stumbled backwards, blood gushing as if from a geyser from the wound.

America smirked.

"Gotcha."

His triumph did not last long. He hadn't expected it to. Any infinitesimal gain, any small victory, any piece of revenge was enough. He had done what he needed to do. He waited, not knowing where to run to protect Canada or France—not knowing, in fact, where anyone or anything was at all. Like England, he was adrift in a strange sea, though one of nothingness rather than of shapes straight from a Picasso painting. The cacophony in his ears—an eerie, ill-tuned symphony of his brother's yells, the Thing's footsteps, an unknown object's flight through the air—compensated for the emptiness before his eyes.

As did the searing pain that exploded in his abdomen.

America gasped from the impact and hesitantly brushed his fingers against his torso.

A blade.

"America!"

Canada had seen the attack coming. The Thing had managed to throw France's sword at America in spite of the nation's devastating attack. He had run pell-mell to save him the second he saw the monster lift the weapon, but in his hysterical haste, he had tripped and fallen over the remnants of the ceiling and had had to watch the Thing pierce his brother's stomach.

Not again.

No more.

Canada launched himself into the air behind his brother and caught him before he hit the ground. France ran over, the Thing momentarily incapacitated by the wound America had inflicted. He too tripped over a hefty piece of wood, his emotions overriding his eyes.

"America…" Canada held his brother in his arms and stared at him, his eyes wide and his gaze horrified.

_No. Nonono._

Why had he ever left his side?

France knelt down beside the brothers and swallowed. He'd sworn to save them. He'd told England he'd get them out okay if anything happened. The island nation had said that, if he died, only their escape could bring him peace.

He would have to look upon them with anguish now: this battlefield was not littered with dead bodies but with broken promises.

"'S'okay." America smiled for them as he had for England. "Look. It has a weak spot somewhere. And I got a sword for you."

He grasped the protruding hilt and, before Canada could stop him, yanked it out. He groaned a little as blood pooled beneath him like water let loose from a dam.

France could hardly hold the blade, his hands shook so.

"Yeah." Canada was glad America could not see his face drained of blood and his cheeks streaked with tears. He put a hand behind his brother's head. "You did. That—was heroic, America." Foolhardy, but brave.

"Y'think?"

"Of course," said France. He put his hand on America's head beside Canada's.

America grinned even wider.

"I'm glad."

Then, he was gone, off to greet England with his smile.

Canada covered his eyes. His shoulders shook. France pulled him to his feet not out of callousness but urgency. If America hadn't bought them enough time to escape, he might have given them the means to do so.

_He hit it somewhere on the head, _France thought, trying not to look at the dead nation's unnaturally white face at his feet. He knew if he did, he would be unable to fight or flee. _But where?_

"He hit its forehead."

Canada struggled to steady his voice as he pointed to the Thing, which had managed to stand again. He wanted to run, to escape with France, but he could tell that the creature was regaining its strength too quickly. They'd be dead in moments if they fled. The monster was too fast and the door too far.

"Here." France handed his son a block of wood, already stained with America's blood. "You're out of arrows. Try hitting it."

France switched his sword to his left hand and hoisted a huge plank with his right. He stood beside Canada, unable to bear the thought of losing the last member of his family. The Thing towered over them, still dripping blood from its wound, too deep and too mortal to heal entirely.

"Now, Canada!"

Both nations threw their weapons. Both missed. They tried again and again to beat back the monster stepping closer and closer, nearly upon them now—but failed each time.

_We're not strong enough_, Canada thought. Of course—America, as the strongest of the four, could throw any hefty object with ease. If he was an Olympic discus thrower, the others were childish amateurs. Neither Canada nor France could possibly hope to strike it in its forehead.

Unless…

"France. Can we somehow retrieve my arrows? That's the only way."

The older nation frowned.

"Yes, but… I'll have to wait for it to get even closer."

Canada's heart skipped a beat. He knew what France was planning.

"Papa—just please don't—"

France squeezed Canada's hand.

"I won't."

He held back from adding, "I promise."

Canada frantically scanned the Thing's body. The knee—he could grab an arrow from there. It was low enough. The arrow wouldn't take as long to extract from the tough flesh. He could fire quickly and decisively once he had it.

He hoisted his bow.

One shot could end it all. One arrow could end the nightmare—but no. Nothing could erase the memory of England's final spell or America's farewell smile. Some nightmares lasted moments, forgotten upon awakening. But others took the soul captive, gnawing it to nothing but a nervous wreck. They left indelible marks, quietly guiding every movement and dictating every thought. No amount of safety could make them benign. No level of peace could fill the vacuous voids.

He would never be free even if he did flee.

France brandished his sword and, a lump rising in his throat, released Canada's hand. One moment passed, then another. Time, once a precious resource, now could not pass fast enough. He had to let seconds tick by unused, unheeded. He breathed in time with the creature's pace, painstakingly slow in comparison to how fast he'd seen it run before. Inhale, hold, exhale. Breathe in, wait until blue in the face, breathe out. The pattern in the midst of chaos soothed him a little, but only until the monster's foot came crashing down in front of him.

Time to act or lose his chance forever.

France sprang straight into the Thing, blade held with an experienced, skillful grip. He slashed at its skin several times. Once more, seconds mattered. He had to distract the creature long enough for Canada to play his part safely. In his peripheral vision, he saw the other nation hurdling toward the monster's unguarded knee, hand extended to yank the arrow free. His son could do it. If anyone escaped, it would be him. He could save himself and, with just a pinch of luck, both of them.

"Shit!"

France spun to face Canada.

That moment was one he could not have afforded to waste. In letting it slip through his fingers, he let it cost him everything.

For the first few seconds after France had been smashed into the wall, he couldn't breathe. Hacking coughs wracked his body as he fought to make sense of what had just happened. He thought he heard Canada screaming his name, but maybe he was just imagining the sound, only dreaming of a world beyond this one, outside this prison. He felt the other nation's hand on his shoulder and saw his face next to his. He slowly realized that much was real.

"Did you do it, _mon trésor?_"

"Yes." Canada hated to lie, but he hated even more to exacerbate France's pain. "I defeated him, Papa."

"I'm so proud of you." France sighed and leaned his head against Canada's bloody shoulder. Canada put his arms around him and held him close.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to get out soon."

The Thing drew closer, still riddled with every one of Canada's arrows. When he'd tried to remove his weapon, Canada had discovered that too much of the Thing's flesh had closed around it. Not even America could have pulled it free. France had heard him yell and stood still in shock a moment too long, giving the monster a chance to crush him against the wall.

And from that moment, Canada had chosen his fate.

He could have tried to grab another arrow. He could have taken the gamble that they'd decided against after America's death and thrown France's sword at the Thing. He could have saved himself.

But he remembered. Their pact had been to run, to run and save themselves. But there had been another half of that pact. He heard their voices ringing in his mind: _"Protect each other's lives. Save the ones in your power to save. Take care of those you can."_

He was out of the others' reach. But France was still his to guard. He would honor their pact; he would keep the covenant. He would not leave France to die alone.

He would not live a life without his beloved family.

_Stay with him. He's yours to protect. You swore you would._

"Have we made it out yet, Canada?"

"Yes." He smiled. "It's so pretty out here. We're all together again. Italy's laughing. America and England are bickering. We're sitting together in the sunlight in the valley we walked through to get here."

France grabbed his hand suddenly.

"You'll stay, right? You're not going anywhere?"

"Of course I will. I'll be right here."

"Promise?"

"Yes. I promise."

Canada kept that promise even as the Thing dealt a final blow that knocked his lifeless body into France's cold lap.


	12. Orange

**Prompt: **Orange

**Characters: **France and Canada

**Notes: **This theme borrows a few lines from "Outsides." I think it's pretty obvious but wanted to mention it just in case.

* * *

This couldn't possibly end well.

For weeks, Canada had been dreading this day. Not because he didn't respect his people's right to choose their future—not at all, in fact. He knew better than anyone what an explosive topic Quebec sovereignty was (and had been for decades). They were free to decide, free to choose.

Canada understood, but his sympathy didn't heal his heartache or ease his migraine. Someone must have ignited a fire around his brain, his head burned so. He longed for an ocean to extinguish the painful blaze, but no medicine worked—and none would. Only the end of the day would bring him relief, whether temporary or permanent.

He found the strength to roll onto his side (nearly falling out of bed from weakness as he did so) and look at the dilapidated hotel alarm clock. 1:30 p.m. Not even close to closing time for the polls and still far from sunset. Softly, he moaned and piled another pillow on top of his head. He thought his eardrums might explode from the throbbing slowly radiating from behind his eyes to his temples and throughout his inner ears. Canada had turned off all the lights in his room, but he could not prevent small rays of sunshine from peeking through the drawn curtains. The light seemed bent on blinding him, dim though it be. The tiny hum of voices outside his door hurt his ears as much as would a nearby heavy metal concert.

Canada wished the whole world would just _disappear_ for the day. No provincial in-fighting, no squabbling at the meeting downstairs, no light or sound to agitate his migraine. Nothing. No pain, no stress, no fear.

_Faut rester forts au Québec ! _

Canada rolled onto his other side and squeezed his eyes shut.

_You cannot suppress us any longer!_

He pulled his knees to his chest.

_Nous gagnerons ! Nous resterons forts !_

He pleaded for it all to end.

Was he really this broken, this weak, this divided as a country?

Canada remembered with sudden alarm how the American Civil War had crippled his brother. His breathing quickened as he saw a terrible future in his mind, one of even more intense fighting and panic as he felt himself fall apart with no way of ever putting the pieces back together—not in the same shape as before, at least. Losing one piece, no matter how small or how troublesome, changed the shape of the puzzle. And, even beyond that, it changed the image that the pieces coalesced to create. The pretty picture lacking one piece became a strange conglomeration of colors that made no sense.

He stood to lose his entire identity.

But didn't his people stand to lose—or to gain—much more?

Two parallel fates faced each other on an uneven balance capable of being upset or rigged by any number of factors as small as the weather (who would drive to the polls in a snowstorm?) and as large as intimidation ("_Vote yes or you won't have a job!"_). No matter their size, all were significant. They had the power to change lives—of humans and of nations. He wanted to be happy and he wanted them to be happy and no one needed to be in pain and if only they could get along but the province was a mess and he knew it but he just couldn't make anything _stop_—

Canada thought his head might explode.

The loud knock on his door didn't help; instead, it set off a string of firecrackers within his skull.

"Canada?"

He hid further beneath his protective fort of pillows.

"Canada, _mon trésor, _are you there?"

The nation lifted his head a little at the sound of their shared language—one of the many wedges driven into his land.

_France._

He was condemned if he did and damned twice over if he did not answer his fellow nation. On the one hand, he couldn't possibly muster the strength to sit up, let alone walk to the door. On the other, he couldn't stand to hear that noisy knock and that infernal yelling that echoed in his head, gaining more and more volume with each reverberation that slammed against his skull and shattered his eardrums.

Most important of all, however, he wanted the company and comfort of his Papa. Surely he could do something to help him find the scattered pieces of this puzzle. All blind eyes needed a guide to help them find the light, even when it burned. Perhaps especially in such painful cases.

"Hey, France, y'need some help? I know how to wake him up!"

Well, that settled it.

With slow but staccato movements, Canada picked himself up. He swayed as he stood, blood pounding in his temples and shooting pains stabbing all his joints. A fuzzy cloud that somehow resembled TV static dominated his vision, giving him considerable difficulty navigating through the small room to the door. His hearing made a poor guide: the cacophony of voices seemed to come from all around him. Lost and dazed but unable to stop moving (however slow his pace), he struggled to find the door.

_One foot, then the other_, Canada told himself. He closed his eyes and stretched out his hands. The country could do that little—or that much, given what a herculean effort moving had become.

With another few footsteps, he reached the door. Or so he thought, until he moved his leg and knocked his kneecap against the corner of a table with a crash.

"Are you all right in there?"

Canada grabbed his head, heels of his hands pressed against his closed eyes, and groaned.

Fortunately, France's nearby voice enlightened his sense of direction and helped him find the door at last. He gripped the soothingly cold doorknob and rested his cheek against the varnished mahogany. Taking a few deep breaths, he let his chin rest on his chest until he produced enough motivation from the depths of his heart to open the door.

"Canada, my—oh, are you all right?"

At the sound of France's voice—concerned, strained, surprised—America diverted his attention from England (who had been complaining about the frivolity and frenzy of New York City, never mind that it was no worse than his own London) to his brother.

"Hey, what's—"

"Go on without us." France softly shut the door to Canada's room. "He'd have been more harm than help," he said to Canada, who wanted to collapse on the floor.

"Thanks." He could say no more for a moment, his head hurt so.

France put his hands on his son's shoulders to steady him. "You need to get to bed. I can tell."

America pounded on the door. Canada cringed at the sound of England dragging him away amidst loud, obnoxious protests. France placed his hands over Canada's ears, and he let himself relax some. The throbbing in his skull did not subside, but the thudding of his heart slowed. Once the other half of their family had left, the elder nation wrapped an arm around the younger's shoulders like a warm blanket. Canada leaned against his side, as snug and secure as if he had been formed to fit beside his Papa. He leaned his head back, allowing his stiff neck to rest as France guided him back to his bed, pausing where Canada needed to pause and walking as slowly as he did.

Once the pair reached the bed (disheveled from Canada's tossing and turning), the Frenchman sat down first and helped Canada down next to him.

"Do you need anything?" he asked.

"France, it's fine, don't—"

"I asked if you needed anything. Anything at all."

After a moment, Canada nodded, although the tiny bobbing of his head could hardly be called a nod.

"Ice." He had to choke out the word, his migraine having intensified all of a sudden. France gently laid a hand on his forehead and nodded.

"I'll take your key," said France. He picked up the thin card from the table; then, he helped the Canadian lie back in the mound of pillows. "Be back soon."

Canada did not have to struggle or try to trust France. Ever since his childhood, they'd had an unexplainable bond, a silent understanding between them, a deep knowledge of each other's hearts.

Yet his migraine constantly reminded him that the voices of his people could infiltrate and destroy the silence that drew them so close.

Within minutes, France returned with a cold towel packed with ice.

"Sit up for me," he said, an arm around the middle of Canada's back as much to comfort as to support him. France sat down behind him and drew the younger close so his back curled against the elder's strong, solid chest, like a tired child snuggling close to its soothing mother. Then, he placed the ice on the back of Canada's neck, holding it there with his shoulder despite the uncomfortable cold.

For the first time that day, Canada released the tension building in his shaking muscles and burning bones and let France's body support his. Even as he let his Papa gather up his soul and care for it with unspoken words and unseen touches, he felt a pang of guilt, as if someone had snapped a rubber band against his heart. Half the reason America had insisted their next meeting be in New York was to give their family some time together. And he had ruined their plans.

"France," he began, but the other nation interrupted him.

"Don't worry about it. We still have plenty of time here. You'll get better soon."

France rested his chin on top of Canada's head and tousled his soft blond curls the way he used to when he had trouble sleeping as a child. Father and son breathed in sync like ballroom dancers acclimating themselves to each nuance of their partners' movements and adjusting to mirror every small detail.

"So is this something bothering Canada or Matthew?" He took care to whisper.

"Canada."

"Tell me."

"I don't know what to say."

France smiled and adjusted the ice pack so it better rested against Canada's aching neck. It was a challenging task, holding up a ticking time bomb of a head.

"Start with Matthew. How does he feel?"

"Like dying."

"I'd be terribly sad if that happened. Why is it so bad?"

"My head is going to catch on fire if it hasn't already."

"Good thing we have this melting ice to put it out with, then."

In spite of himself, Canada laughed a little. "It's doing a good job."

"_Merveilleux_. How can we help Canada now?"

Canada placed a hand over his face. The issue had eviscerated his emotions as much as it had his people. The sun would not rise in his heart until it set that afternoon in a burst of orange and pink light. And when the votes were counted, if there were more _oui_'s than _non_'s, he would not feel any light from that interior sun for a long time. Indefinitely, in fact. There would be no sunshine until he awoke a new country with a new heart with a hole he could never hope to heal.

"We can't."

"Oh?"

"It's… it's out of my hands, Papa." He struggled on the last word. Not because he disliked the nature of their relationship but because he loved being France's _trésor _too much to imagine losing him, even for a second. "We aren't ready for this. We can't possibly be."

France thought a moment. He searched his heart for the perfect words of reassurance.

"That's the way it is sometimes. But I know as well as you do that you deal with things best when they're out of your control."

"Not this time." Canada's stomach rolled as his migraine returned after a brief respite that seemed a mockery of recovery. He begged his body to regain control and not to get sick all over himself and France. As soon as the unnerving wave of nausea diminished to a slight discomfort, however, a sharp pain like a nail piercing his brain made him cry out weakly yet sharply.

"Canada?" France placed his hand over his son's. "_Mon trésor en sucre_, please, what's wrong?"

Another nail penetrated his skull.

Canada's hand trembled as the fire roared in his head and the aura blinded him with sparkling static. With excruciating difficulty, he squeezed France's hand in his weak grip and placed it on his chest over his breaking heart. He took a shaky breath and managed to whisper one word:

"_Québec._"

_"That's right. As long as you feel nice in here, you know that one of us is nearby and that we're friendly."_

_"Are you all alone? It must be hard living here by yourself."_

_"I promise I'll be by your side. Forever and ever and ever and always."_

_Je me souviens. _I remember. They had chosen that motto together for Canada's heart. From the memory of a physically lost Frenchman and an emotionally stranded child sprouted their love. Both hearts cherished that promise of unending friendship: even when France gave Canada to England, even when their family fell apart during America's Revolution, even when World War II tore them away from each other, their hearts remembered. Even when they broke.

As Canada's was now.

"Oh, Matthew."

Canada swallowed his tears.

"They're winning," he said as an earthquake of pain rattled and shattered his heart. The melted ice behind his neck could do nothing to dull the spasms and shockwaves in his chest. He let his head sink back against France's shoulder.

He was utterly powerless.

"The separatists?" France asked, though he did not need an answer. Canada nodded all the same. His heart beat in time with the cataclysms in his head, beats from a horrid metronome whose clock-like clicking reminded him how much longer he had before everything ended—either for the moment or forever.

France pressed his cheek to Canada's and whispered in his ear, "It's okay."

"It's _Quebec_, Papa."

He didn't need to elaborate: the word itself told a story of conflict and conquest, of fighting and fear, of confusion and love and hate and unity and division. The name of his main Francophone province was a synecdoche for his childhood, good and bad, and his whole life. It was a treasure chest of memories, an encapsulation of his soul as a human and as a nation. England and France had argued over it; Canada and France had quarreled with their leaders over it; America had twice trampled it to nothing (or tried to, at least).

Break Quebec and shatter Canada's heart. Break Canada's heart and blow his identity to smithereens. Break Canada's heart and his identity and he had nothing left but a damaged Matthew Williams masquerading as a Canada that was not Canada at all but a childish, warped caricature thereof.

France knew. He had nurtured that heart and taught it to love. He had given it warmth and life and _joy_. He had sacrificed his own soul to be the guardian of Canada's. He had failed, of course—whenever he dug too deep into his own heart, he always remembered those haunting purple eyes staring at him as England swept his treasure up in his arms and walked away, a co-conspirator in France's ultimate betrayal. But Canada had forgiven him. He had forgiven him long ago. Their love had been broken, but mercy had been the glue that had put them together again.

And their shared pain brightened their vision and strengthened their resolve to break their promises no more. The holes in their hearts allowed the light to peer through.

"I know." France tapped Canada's forehead with his fingertips.

"I should _be _there. With my people."

"But they're here," said France, patting Canada's chest over his heart. "And even if you're not there in Quebec with them, you carry them here with you. Because you love them—enough to let them decide their future _and _yours."

Canada sighed. "You think so?"

"Of course. I'm the country of love, you silly."

"But—if this goes through and—what if I... _change_?"

France chuckled. "What kind of a thing to ask is that? I said I'm the country of love. What's more, I'm your Papa. No matter how this turns out and no matter how it changes you, I will always love you. _You_ were the child I met in the forest. _You _were the boy I promised to love. Another nation might come from your heart, but I will still love you for _you_."

Canada snuggled closer to France's chest, the only stronghold he could find in the midst of his internal storm.

"Forever and ever and ever?"

France wrapped his arms around his son.

"Forever and ever and ever and always."

Canada closed his eyes and let his Papa hold him, as if he were a lonely child once more.

To love someone at all was to be a star orbiting him or her in a delicate dance and to move according to gravity's every whim and fancy. Yet the orbit was not confining but liberating, for its order and choreography allowed for a truly beautiful dance, even in the midst of pain.

And so Canada's soul moved, supported by France's love that gave him solace even as he slipped away into sleep. Just as a celestial body could experience the gravitational pull of another object, gently guided by its motion, so too did Canada sense France beside him in his feverish dreams of fear and solitude and disintegration. His sleep came nowhere near true peace, but for the remaining few hours until nightfall, the comfort of dreaming in his father's arms mirrored genuine serenity enough for his broken heart.

Thus they stayed, Canada restlessly resting despite the fires of pain crackling in his head and heart and France protecting him in his arms as he waited for the orange and gold fire of sunset.

And, even in Canada's sleep and France's thoughts, both nations kept returning to one thing, one center of a wheel from which all their ideas originated like spokes.

_Je me souviens_.

* * *

"Historical" Notes (I am _not_ referring to something that happened during my life as historical. Geez):

On October 30, 1995, Quebec held a referendum to determine if it would become an sovereign nation. This was not the first such vote, but it was perhaps the most interesting, given the final results: 49.4% "Yes"to 50.6% "No." Ottawa was basically unprepared to handle a "Yes" victory and would have been blindsided had the election turned out only a tiny bit differently._  
_

The whole issue of Quebec sovereignty has been quite the powder keg due to language and cultural differences, as well as international influence. I only subtly mentioned it, but in the 1960's France treated Quebec as separate from Canada, to the anger of many Canadians. Given how I portrayed Quebec here, I glossed over the issue a bit and wrote it as France and Canada bickering with their leaders. I might do an more in-depth fic about it at some point, though, since it's so interesting. In any case, I just hope this was respectful enough toward both sides.

It took me a bit to figure out how I wanted to handle Quebec within the Hetalia-verse. I don't really go for personifications of provinces or states, so I stayed away from that route. I knew there had to be something special about it, since Canada kinda grew out of Quebec and it's a very unique province. I finally settled on Quebec being Canada's heart for a number of reasons. Just so you're all clear on what's going on. (: He has a migraine, though, because the whole country is under a lot of tension because of the issue.

Translations!

_Faut rester forts au Québec ! = _we must stay strong in Quebec.

_Nous gagnerons ! Nous resterons forts ! _= we will win! We will stay strong!

_Je me souviens_ = I remember. It's translated in-fic, but I put it here as well because it's kinda important.

**Next **is "**Yellow," **with Chibimerica and England! Actually, the next several themes are all about America and England. Oops.


	13. Yellow

**Prompt: **Yellow

**Characters: **Chibimerica and England

**Notes: **Le what? I updated two days in a row?

I did! (:

* * *

America threw off the heavy covers forming a cocoon around his bed and set his feet on the cold wood floor. With a shiver, he decided he wanted his blankets after all to stave off the winter chill that had managed to creep past the cracks in the walls and windowpanes and crawl up his spine. The small child grabbed the sheets in his tiny fists and yanked them off his bed, sending himself crashing into the wall because of his prodigious strength. Wincing, America picked himself up and snuggled into the soft fabric.

He was ready for his prank.

England sat at the kitchen table with a book and a cup of tea. Every so often, he dipped his quill in the pot of ink and scratched a few lines beside a phrase that captured his fancy. Thus he did every cold night once he had tucked America in and kissed him goodnight. The cozy comforts of literature and tea distracted him from the cold and gave him a brief break from his work in anticipation for his own bedtime. He sat in the midst of a storm, in the eye of a hurricane where his crackling hearth glowed despite the wind and his feet felt warm in his knit socks instead of frozen in the waist-deep snow. The nation found himself in a snowless snow globe, both within a wintry world of wonder and insulated from it. But not isolated.

England had created his own idyllic heaven on earth.

With, apparently, a small angel wandering around it disguised as a demon.

"Boo!"

England looked up from his Milton anthology and raised an eyebrow at the moving lump of blankets on the kitchen floor.

"Oh! I'm terrified!"

America threw the blankets off his head and, eyes wide with mischief, grinned.

"Really?"

"No. What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour, America?" England knelt on the floor next to the child and frowned. "It's late. I tucked you in over an hour ago."

America crossed his arms and scrunched his face into a pout. He averted his gaze away from the other nation.

"America."

He clutched his blankets to his tiny chest.

"_America_."

"—was scary."

England sighed. If he didn't get the boy to bed soon, he'd have a grumpy little country to deal with tomorrow on top of the blizzard and the omnipresent pile of paperwork. That wouldn't be good for either brother. The last thing England wanted was a fight, whether now or in the morning.

"I didn't hear you, America."

"You didn't think I was scary!"

The small nation sniffled, and his lower lip quivered.

England's frown faded. He paused a moment, trying to think of what he should do—oh, being a guardian of such a small child was so confusing and frightening; any tiny mistake could ruin _everything_!—before reaching out to his colony. America drew back, pouting all the more.

"America, you see…" England took a deep breath. Maybe France _should_ have adopted the boy after all. "I could hear you coming. If you want to scare me, you have to be much quieter. Like this."

He crept on all fours (_like an absolute fool_, he thought) into the dark hall behind America, who whirled around and tried to find his guardian in the darkness leading away from the kitchen.

"I'm not scared!" America ran into the hallway, his feet pitter-pattering on the icy floor. "I'm gonna fin' you!"

The small boy giggled as he raced through the passage and listened for his brother. The warmth in his heart from being near England proved no help at all: it remained at the same intensity no matter where he scurried. But it was no problem—he would find him no matter what!

On tiptoe, careful to follow England's warning to be as quiet and stealthy as the creeping winter chill, America drew closer to a door near the middle of the hall. He pressed his ear against the wood just below the doorknob. There he was—he could hear him moving around inside!

"I found you!" he cheered and flung the door open—to nothing.

America screamed as England slinked up behind him from the room on the opposite side of the hall and grabbed his shoulders.

"Got you!"

He swept the child up in his arms and carried him back to the kitchen and its warmth and light. England sat down in his chair at the table, his colony bouncing up and down in his lap.

"That was so scary!" America grinned and wrapped his arms around himself tight.

"Really?" England's heart jumped, not for joy but for fear. "Are—Are you all right?"

"Of _course_! It was a _good _kin' o' scary! You're awesome, England!"

"You think so?"

"Yes!" America poked his brother's cheek, finally coaxing him to smile.

"I'm glad." The warmth of his smile spreading inward throughout his body, England gave the small nation a hug. "Come, America, let's get you back to bed."

"Okaaaaay." The child rubbed his bright blue eyes, his eyelids weighted down by drowsiness. "I was bored. But now I'm not. I think I can sleep now if I _hafta_."

"Yes. You have to." England set his colony down on the floor. "Let's pick up these blankets now."

America gathered up his bedclothes in his tiny arms (nearly staggering beneath the bulk) and stood at the edge of the hall without moving. He looked at the older nation, who chuckled.

"What? Still scared, are we?"

"No!" America shook his head vehemently. "I'm waiting for you to carry me! The floor's cold, and you're good at carrying. It makes me happy."

_Happy._

Finally, he had done something right. He had taken good care of this small, helpless boy. America had his strength but little else, and England had been able to attend to his needs. He had provided for him and tried as best as he could to keep him smiling and thriving.

Truly, he had been terrified before.

But not now.

"Of course, America." England scooped up the boy, blankets and all, and, cradling him close to his heart, took him to his room. The two nations remade America's bed; then, England softly laid him down and pulled the covers up to his chin as his eyelids fluttered.

_Poor thing, he's half-asleep already._

"Sleep well," he said as he pressed his lips to the child's forehead.

Then, just before he left the room and closed the door, England found the courage to pause and whisper, "I love you, my darling."

* * *

This did not turn out the way I had envisioned, but you know what? I actually like this better. I can totally see England being confused and even a little frightened of taking care of America, to the point of not entirely knowing how to handle him. Still, he means well, and a little concern goes a long way.

Yellow is considered symbolic of cowardice in some cultures (there's this expression "yellow belly," which is a derogatory term for a coward). That's the connection to the theme.

**"Green" **is next with more **America and England**. I think. It'll be set during **WWII**, so it might take a bit longer to finish given the amount of research I'll want to do.


	14. Green

**Prompt: **Green

**Characters:** America and England

* * *

Exhilaration was a funny feeling that drove people and nations alike to do some strange things. Not that America would consider this mission strange, of course. It made perfect sense: England needed help and America would pay any price to help him, neutrality laws and military orders be damned. Heroes operated without borders, without restrictions. His people had risked their citizenship for strangers; how was he supposed to sacrifice anything less for his brothers?

Thousands of miles beneath his airplane in the cloud-spotted sky, the green grass, stretched as far as he could see, curling around shimmering ponds and muddy ditches swelling with water from the English rains. Beautiful as the scenery was, America still preferred to fly at night, with the city lights clustered together like luminous galaxies against the backdrop of the dark universe and each home a star within the galaxy, its inhabitants planets who sometimes wandered but inexorably returned, bound by the gravity of love and family. Here, with the Blitz casting a shadow over his brother's land every night, America could only fly during the day. He laughed a little at the thought of England trying to shoot down his plane—a study model made in the world's Air Capital, his own Wichita—thinking he was Germany.

"What's so funny, Captain Jones?" a voice asked over the radio.

America waved his hand flippantly, though he knew the other pilot could not see him. "Oh, just the thought of those silly Brits chasing us away. That tends to happen a lot. Have you heard anything from the guys who went to help in Canada?"

"Yeah. They met a man there named Matthew Williams—I think? I can't remember his name exactly—who'll help be in charge of them."

America smiled. "Glad to hear it. They're in good hands."

"You know him?"

"You could say we have history. Oh, that's Tadcaster up ahead. We'll be landing soon. Y'all hear that?"

A chorus of voices shouting "yes!" rang in the nation's ears.

Much as America anticipated England's reaction to his totally heroic entrance, he still cherished every second he had in the sky. Above the world, somehow simultaneously inside and outside it, his heart was free. The adrenaline rush that taking off and landing gave him made him feel like a god who had tamed gravity and the wind itself. No longer was America confined to the ground—no, now he could venture into the skies and do more than just dream of the fabled wild blue yonder. He had found Shangri-La, and it was not in the mountains but up here, thirty thousand feet above ground. He'd soared to Mount Olympus and beyond.

Yet every time he flew, America remembered the tragic fates of so many of his aviators. Lindbergh had lost his baby. Amelia Earhart had lost her _life_. It was in her honor that he had named his plane, the _Beautiful Meeley_. The Kansans who had assembled it had been more than happy to paint a picture of one of their own on the nose of the aircraft. There she was, her curls framing her youthful face that seemed so real, so alive, though the aviator was now no more than a closely held memory that smiled only in his heart.

Perhaps not all the memories the clouds conjured in his mind were bad. Especially not the ones of her hands over his while he had taught her to fly. Though he had never had more than a silly, boyish crush on her, America still treasured the touch of those warm, thin hands.

She was beautiful.

Flying was beautiful.

"RAF Church Fenton." America fiddled with his radio for a moment before pressing a series of buttons on the control panel to deploy the craft's landing gear. "This is Captain Alfred F. Jones of the No. 71 Squadron, requesting permission to land."

A loud crackling of static came over the radio.

"Sorry," said a male voice after a moment. "Didn't catch that."

America pressed his headphones over his ears (even though he knew doing so wouldn't help the man in the air control tower hear him) and repeated himself louder than before.

"Captain Alfred F. Jones of the No. 71 Squadron. The Eagle Squadron. Requesting permission to land."

A pause. Then, a laugh.

"Permission given." America could hear the man's smile in his voice. "Welcome, you Yanks."

* * *

America pushed his foggy aviator goggles onto his forehead and wiped a thin sheen of sweat off his face. Being back on solid ground sure felt strange, he thought. But for now, he would be fine. The other members of the squadron had landed safely, although one of the younger men had messed up the formation order, eliciting a collective sigh from the Americans and Englishmen alike. At least they were all okay. That came before making a good first impression, America knew.

He climbed out of the spacious cockpit and jumped to the ground, half-expecting it to move beneath him. With a light shiver, America pulled his warm bomber jacket around himself. His brother's land just _had_ to be chilly and windy, although the cool September weather contrasted nicely with the heat inside the airplane. Normally, America thought it too cold, but with the sun having beaten down on his cockpit as he had flown over the Atlantic—the great ocean whose history ran as deep as its waters—he had gotten warmer than he liked.

But all of it was worth a little discomfort. This mission was worth more than America could imagine.

He couldn't _wait_ to see England's face.

"Hey!" America raised his hand and waved at a group of British airmen and an officer approaching them at the other end of the runway. His face fell when he saw England was not with them.

"Welcome, all of you!" A tall officer with a shock of blond hair that peeked underneath his tightly fitted cap shook America's hand. "Flight Lieutenant Mark Lindsey."

"Captain Alfred F. Jones."

"We're glad to have your help—is something wrong?"

America frowned. He still hadn't seen England. Hadn't Canada been there waiting on the runway for the RCAF volunteers?

"I was just wondering where Arthur Kirkland was. I was kinda expecting him."

"Kirkland? You know him?"

"Yeah. We go way back." _Way, way back_.

"Hm." Lindsey turned to the group of airmen behind him. "Any of you know where he got off to?"

"I think I last saw him in the control tower, sir," said one young man, his cap cocked a little too far to one side. He fixed it with fumbling hands once the officer noticed him.

"Thank you." Lindsey turned back to America. "Seems it'd be best to look there for him."

America nodded his thanks. "If it's okay, I'd like to go see him now."

"That's fine." He had no idea why, but Lindsey thought that this American pilot deserved his full trust. Something about him struck the Englishman as odd—and it wasn't his accent or his airplane (although he did think its nose art strangely endearing). He had a je ne sais quoi about him that the other American airmen lacked.

"Thanks." America shook Lindsey's hand again and took off for the green and rust-colored brick building just off the runway. Even at a distance, he thought he saw a figure standing behind the blue-tinted windows of the observation area on top of the tower. The pleasant fire burned in his heart; he knew his fellow nation was there waiting for the arrival of the American volunteers. And not expecting America himself to lead them, to come to his aid.

Official stances be damned. Government policy be damned. Something higher compelled him to fly across the ocean and near hostile territory and away from home. Well. Not quite away from home. By his people's side America found his home, and he was more than happy to be here with some of his most daring young men, those who had given up the safety of neutrality to aid their greatest allies.

America was so proud of them.

Sneaking around the other side of the building facing away from the runway and toward the empty green field surrounding the nearby village, America stole up the rickety staircase as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, he couldn't exactly surprise one of his allies—England would certainly notice the interior warmth from the other nation's presence—but he still wanted to have at least a little fun.

The door from the rooftop to the glass-enclosed observation area squeaked as America opened it, but England took no notice. He stood with his back to the American, his gaze focused on the floor by the window. The younger nation held his breath and crept closer, painstakingly controlling every muscle in his legs to mute his footfalls.

_Just a little closer… No, don't turn around! Closer, closer…_

"Gotcha!" America grabbed his brother's shoulders and squeezed them tight.

"Ack!" The Briton whirled, his expression a mix of shock and anger and… fear? America couldn't tell.

"Relax, England. It's just me."

The older nation nearly slapped America across the face.

"Do you think that's funny? Do you really? Bloody _hell_, America."

"Sorry." America scuffed the heel of his boot on the ground.

England rolled his eyes but lowered his hands, which he had been clenching in fists near his face.

"Y'know," America said after a strained pause, "you're the one who taught me that."

"Taught you what?"

"How to sneak up on people."

"Hmph. Grow up, America."

"If you ask the rest of the squadron, they'll tell you I grew up a whole year."

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Lie about your age to get in! Oh, for goodness' sake. Did you think _any_ of this through? Aren't you supposed to be neutral?"

America grinned and placed his arms akimbo. "Well, maybe. America is. But I don't remember Alfred ever saying so."

England sighed. He needed to yell at the other nation, to send him home—where he was safe from the war, where he was happy, where things were okay. But he almost didn't want to.

"Speaking of which," America said, "how's Artie holding up?"

"Mm." He shrugged. He felt his people's fear, but he also felt their resilience and their courage in the face of their terror. The bombs both shook and strengthened him. "The last hope of free Europe": it was far from light and frivolous a title. Even so, the more the Luftwaffe attacked him, the more he swore to spit back in their faces. "I'm okay."

"That's good. And now, you'll be even better with us here to help you!"

"Not if you keep trying to scare me. I'll have you court-martialed."

"You can't court-martial the United States of America!"

"Don't tempt me. And I thought you came here as Alfred."

"Well… _whatever_."

England turned to look out the window at the mingling armies. Less than an hour together, and the men had already befriended each other. He smiled in spite of himself.

"'Nor law nor duty bade me fight,'" he said, America coming to stand by his side, "'Nor public man, nor cheering crowds. A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds.'"

England took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale and taste the poignant verses.

"William Butler Yeats."

"Say what?"

"Yeats." He glanced at America. "'An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.' It's a poem."

"Oh."

America looked at his brother. He had expected to find him more worried and tired than he was. True, the Englishman was a bit jumpy, and the bombs kept him up at night. But he was strong. And stubborn.

America laughed inside. To think, people wondered where he got his headstrong nature.

"America?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you come here? You know you can't possibly stay long."

The younger nation took in the sight of the elder's determined emerald eyes and starched green uniform. He smelled of rain showers and bergamot and honey and everything wonderful America remembered from his childhood.

The fire in his chest grew more robust. Not only because he wanted to fight and to fly, but also because he raged at the thought of someone hurting his beloved brother.

"Why d'ya think?"

England smirked.

"C'mon, you." He elbowed America. "Let's get back to our people."

"Okay! Time to go save England!"

The Briton snorted but didn't roll his eyes this time as he pulled America behind him by the sleeve of his jacket.

_"Hey, England?"_

_"Mm?"_

_"I came because you're my lonely impulse of delight."_

* * *

Historical Notes:

The Eagle Squadron (Squadrons No. 71, 121, and 133) was the name of the group of Americans who, in 1940 during the Battle of Britain, joined the RAF and RCAF as volunteer pilots. Since the US was officially neutral at this point in the war, these pilots risked losing their citizenship and being imprisoned if they were caught (and some were on their way to the Canadian border). Men who joined this squadron were supposed to be between 20 and 31, meaning Alfie must have lied about his age (his "human age" is 19, I believe).

RAF Church Fenton was an RAF base near Tadcaster.

Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart were famous American pilots. In 1932, Lindbergh's infant son was kidnapped from his house and murdered in one of the most highly publicized crimes of the century. Amelia Earhart, born in Atchison, Kansas, disappeared during a solo circumnavigational flight and was declared dead two years later, in 1939. No one knows what happened to her.

Wichita, Kansas, is nicknamed the "Air Capital of the World." During WWII, it became the main manufacturing site for B-29 bombers, some of the most iconic planes of the war.

Next is "**Blue**," also with America and England. I'm almost done with them, I promise. xD


	15. Blue

**Prompt: **Blue

**Characters: **America and England

**Notes: **Yay, I've been wanting to write this one from the beginning. (:

* * *

"Please kill me."

"Well, if you insist…"

"Ugh." England massaged his temples and leaned his head against the back of the comfortable chair. "I _hate_ colds."

"Wait." America paused, one eyebrow raised and one finger pressed against his bottom lip as he thought. "You mean you can get colds in the summer?"

England just _knew_ America's question had increased the pressure in his already pounding head.

"Every single day, I hope you'll run into a glass door, hurt your head, and finally get some sense. But what do you know? You never do."

He whined softly to himself. All day, his nose had been congested, his throat raw from hacking coughs, and his head both sore and swollen with whatever stuffiness had crammed itself into his sinuses.

England just wanted to drink a bottle of cold medicine, throw a pile of blankets over his head (despite the August heat) and sleep the week away. Unfortunately, America had come by his house for an overnight visit, and England didn't trust him not to get into mischief or break something. As a result, he had to wait for the other nation to get tired and go to bed before he could get some sleep himself.

Naturally, America had decided to drink three cups of caffeine-loaded coffee late in the afternoon. England would rejoice if he did so much as _yawn._ No such luck yet, however.

"I was kidding." America huffed. "You really think I'm that dumb?"

"Yes."

The American crossed his arms and pretended to pout, but within a few seconds, he was smiling again.

"Maybe you should get some sleep or something."

"Maybe _you_ should get some sleep. Don't you have a meeting at the embassy in the morning?"

"…Yeah, I guess. A meeting. Or something like that." America smirked when England groaned and leaned his head against his knees, which he had drawn close to his chest. "I'm just kidding. Yes, I'm meeting our ambassador at my embassy at 25—er, I mean 24—Grosvenor Square at nine-oh-five tomorrow morning, August 8th. It'll be raining because it's _always _raining here, but it won't be raining too hard, unlike this morning. Half the people in the embassy will make fun of my white socks. Do you need any more details, or was that in-depth enough?"

The older nation put his hands over his face and glared at the younger through his fingers.

"No. I think you covered it quite thoroughly."

America tilted his head to one side and gave his brother a thumbs-up.

England ran his fingers through his tangled hair, mumbling to himself. He should have known better than to let America stay over when he had a cold—or whenever, really. It couldn't end well. He would cause some havoc in London or commit some gaffe at the embassy, and then _he'd_ be left to deal with it, complete with a headache from America-induced worry and insomnia.

Yet for some reason, England always let his former colony stay with him. Never slammed the door in his face (_well, except for that one time, but he deserved it_), never yelled at him to get lost (_no more than thrice, at least_), never made him sleep on the floor (_wait… I definitely did that once_).

All right, maybe England wasn't always the most gracious of hosts, but America could twist his arm into letting him stay just _one night_, which usually turned into at least two or three.

Secretly, he didn't mind. Not all that much, anyway.

"England?"

The Briton took a deep breath and exhaled sharply.

"_What_?"

America leaned forward a little in his chair, his elbows on his knees.

"Why're you so _blue_?"

His tone gave England pause. All day long, the American had been teasing him about his cold—"I bet you went outside without a coat! Didn't you use to yell at me about that all the time?" "Dude, you sound like you're _dying_." "You sneeze like a dainty old lady."—but now he sounded concerned. _For once,_ England thought.

"Oh, let me count the reasons," England said as he pinched the bridge of his stuffy nose. "I have a _cold_, but I'm out of cold medicine. I'm convinced there's a blizzard in my brain: I can hardly get my thoughts sorted, it's so hard to see. I have about ten different meetings tomorrow, but I can't sleep because I can't breathe and I can't go to bed because _you _won't go to bed."

England put his head down on his knees for a moment, then lifted it again and, his voice half-exhausted and half-bitter, asked, "Do you need any more details, or was I in-depth enough?"

America whistled. "No, I think you just about covered it. Oh, one thing, though. Who're your meetings with?"

"Why? What do you care?"

"Curiosity." He shrugged.

"Well, if you must know…" England began counting on his fingers. "India's Prime Minister, your Secretary of State, my deputy Prime Minister, my U.N. representative… You really don't care, do you?"

"Four."

"What?"

"That's only four." America held up the appropriate number of fingers. "You said you had ten meetings tomorrow."

England barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Whatever. Speaker of the House of Commons, the Northern Ireland Office, the Chief Scientific Officer, Canada's Governor General, my ambassador to Italy—and I guess there were only nine. Close enough."

"Hm. Okay. Oh, and you could've just _told _me to go to bed so you could."

"And you think you'd have listened? America, I always make you go to bed first when you visit."

"Do you?" Puzzled, America frowned a little. "I never noticed."

"I'm _sure_."

"Well, I guess I'm going to bed now." America rose from his chair and rubbed his eyes to feign exhaustion. In reality, he knew he had a long night of phone calls ahead. "You should go get some sleep. Or something."

"Believe me, I will." _I'll try to, anyway._

"'Night, England."

The older nation let a half-smile cross his face.

"Goodnight, America."

Once he had closed the door to England's guest room and flopped backwards onto the bed, America pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts until he came to the Secretary of State's number.

He had work to do.

* * *

England's eyelids fluttered open as he struggled to escape his smothering slumber. With a small mumble of disgust, he rolled onto his stomach and pillowed his head on his arms. He didn't _want_ to get up. He could so easily return to his dreams and spend the next several hours with a steaming thermos of tea and a saucer full of scones, his sore body curled up in cozy covers with all the cold medicine he needed.

At least he could rest until his alarm sounded. Propping himself up on one elbow, England made a face at the clock across from his bed.

His grimace faded quickly as shock gripped him.

Half past eight.

He'd slept through two of his meetings already.

_Shit_.

England threw off the warm blankets and was scrambling out of bed when he noticed something stuck to his clock. Coughing, he peeled a piece of tape off a scrap of paper obviously ripped from a spiral notebook and covered in a messy scrawl. After he squinted and struggled to make sense of the chicken scratch that he took to be English (although he wasn't sure), England finally deciphered a message.

_England,_

_Don't worry about the meetings. I rescheduled all of them for you. Yep_, all _of them! I got you cold medicine and tea with honey in it. Just get some sleep, and lemme know if you need anything else. I don't want to find you up and walking around when I get back, because everyone knows I'm the strongest and can carry you back to bed and sit on you until you fall asleep. DON'T MAKE ME._

_—America_

The Englishman put down the note and stared at the mug of tea and bottle of medicine flanking the clock. The tea had gotten cold, and the medicine was the kind he hated, but England didn't care. In fact, he hardly noticed these tiny imperfections, he felt so overwhelmed. The tea might have been chillier than the Channel in December, but it warmed him as he took a sip and found it perfectly sweetened. The medicine, too, almost tasted like candy—bearable, at least—despite its bitterness.

England crawled back into bed with a smile on his face and in his heart.

He would have to keep America around for the next several days, he thought as he snuggled down beneath the covers and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Now that we're done with the series of America and England chapters, the next one is **"Purple" **with **England and Chibi Canada** as per cherryfeather101's request. (Remember, you're all free to shoot me ideas or requests for plots and/or characters! I love letting you guys participate.)


	16. Purple

**Prompt: **Purple

**Characters: **England, little Canada, some France

**Notes: **Just so no one wonders mid-fic where America is, my headcanon is that England met Canada before he found America.

Also, just so it's extra clear, this doesn't take place after the Seven Years War (actually, this'd be about 200 years prior to it) but when the English first landed in Newfoundland around the end of the 16th century. In other words, England's just taking care of Canada for a while, not for good.

* * *

He felt so small.

Canada balled his hands into fists and pressed them to his chest, as if to push away anyone who tried to touch him. Not out of malice—no, out of pure fear. This strange new nation terrified the child as he loomed above him, arguing with his Papa with vicious words and violent threats. Or so Canada perceived them, at least. In reality, France and England were merely bantering back and forth, as obnoxious and insufferable to each other as ever.

Canada couldn't understand what was happening.

And it frightened him.

His Papa and the scary man's odd words with their strange power that he was too small to understand—they made him want to cry and throw himself at the two older nations and beg them to stop. Not only because they scared him, but because he was afraid his Papa would get hurt.

"No!"

Canada ran out of the unknown man's shadow and to France. He clung to the older nation's leg, shaking. What was he doing? "Stop! Don't hurt my Papa!"

To his surprise, France laughed and picked him up in his warm, strong arms.

"Sh, _mon trésor_," he said to the little boy, whose face was buried in his chest. "It's all right. Forgive us for not being more civil—"—here he made a mocking face at England—"—and explaining things to you sooner."

He bounced Canada in his arms, the way he knew his son liked.

"This is _Angleterre_," he said, raising an eyebrow at the Englishman. Oh, how he was loving this—aside from scaring the poor child, of course. "He's a nation, like us. Although I wouldn't blame you if you didn't feel particularly warm around him. I don't, either."

England, much as he wanted to smack France, bit his tongue for Canada's sake. No sense in frightening his charge for the next little while.

"Let's say _bonjour_ to our friend _Angleterre_, okay?" France ruffled Canada's hair.

The small nation turned to face the scary man. He had the strangest pair of eyebrows Canada had ever seen; he had to struggle to keep himself from laughing at them. All the same, he still found this other nation a little unnerving.

Canada waved at the Briton, who smiled and waved back at him until he said, "_Bonjour, Angleterre_."

After which England made a strange face as if trying to keep himself from strangling someone, preferably the Frenchman.

"Yes, yes," he said, adding, "_good afternoon_, Canada."

"Now, Canada," said France, tickling his son's cheek to get his attention, "remember what we talked about the other day?"

The little boy giggled, "_Oui_! Of course!"

"Good."

_"I need to take care of some things elsewhere for a bit, mon trésor, and I'm afraid I can't take you with me."_

_"B-But why not?"_

_"Because you're so small yet. It'd be better if you stayed here. There's another nation nearby—you remember the man who landed in Newfoundland? He—well, he'll be able to take care of you while I'm gone. Oh, don't cry! It'll be all right, I promise."_

France hadn't wanted to let England take care of Canada for even a moment. He hadn't wanted his arch-nemesis to do so much as _see_ his child. But he knew England had rightfully claimed Newfoundland. Part of his little treasure belonged to him, and as much as he and the Englishman quarreled, the thought of starting a war over this innocent infant sickened him. Just look at how upset a few minutes of sarcasm and banter had made him, he told himself, and think of what a proper _war_ would do.

France could humble himself for the sake of those enormous purple eyes blinking up at him and those tiny hands gripping his shirt. Besides, as much as he professed to hate England, deep down, he trusted him. He had a strange way with children. Even if England himself denied it and often worried that he would do something stupid to kill anything that came into his care.

"Then I suppose it's time for me to be off," France said, pressing Canada close before setting him on the floor beside England. "Be good, okay? Both of you."

He winked at England, who glowered in response.

"Bye!" Canada called after France and waved until he had disappeared out of sight in the carriage that the boy thought might just kidnap him and carry him away forever.

He certainly hoped it wouldn't.

England knelt down next to the colony and smiled.

"So I guess it's just the two of us for a bit, eh?"

Canada nodded.

"We have a while before it's time for supper. What sorts of things do you like to do?"

"Umm…" The child stared at the ceiling and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if in imitation of a ballerina's careful, measured steps. "I-I like playing outside. _Oui_. That's fun. Me 'n Papa play together outside… a lot, I guess."

England tried not to wince at the toddler's French. "How about you go play outside for a while? The weather's too nice for you to stay cooped up in here. I'll call you when it's time to come back in, okay?"

"Ah. Okay." Canada nodded and raced to the door to put his shoes on. England watched as he struggled with the laces of his boots, then lifted the heavy latch on the door (with some difficulty) and scampered into a pile of red and gold leaves.

Already, he had begun to love this small, docile nation.

* * *

With deep concentration (and perhaps more than a little frustration), England threaded his needle. A small drop of blood dripped onto his trousers from where he had accidentally stabbed himself moments before. He'd finally gotten up from the all-too-comfy easy chair after that and found his thimble. Now, with the thin (_and too sharp_, he thought) needle dangling from a length of blue thread, England fixed the thick fabric of his craft between the two wooden cross-stitching hoops and began studding the purple cloth with x's—some big, some small, but each with a predetermined place.

Embroidery was England's main specialty, knitting a close second, but he often took to cross-stitching when he just needed something to occupy his hands while his mind wandered freely in a blizzard of thoughts. Every now and then, he stretched out his hand, caught one of the snowflakes on his fingertips, and inspected it closely, letting it captivate him before it blew away and another took its place, giving him something new and unique to ponder.

For the rest of the afternoon into the early evening, he continued that way, a new snowflake in his palm every few moments. How were things at home, far across the Atlantic? How did his people feel that day, especially those in his heart? Had the Queen gotten his latest letter yet?—then another snowflake came, and England lost himself in new questions. What kind of a world was this that he now found himself in? What of its future? Surely, the darling little child now under his care would grow up. What then? Were there others like him in this new world? He thought he had heard murmurings about the presence of another infant nation to the south—near where his people had landed in Virginia, perhaps?—but how much of it was true?

Then, all the snowflakes flew together at once, as if someone had shaken a snow globe, and England decided he should busy himself with something other than thinking too hard.

Fortunately, a timid knock at the front door gave him a perfect opportunity.

"Just a moment, Canada!"

England hid his craft in one of the kitchen cabinets—_this one's empty; I'm sure they don't use it—_and, hurrying a little when he noticed how dark it was outside, walked to the front door.

"Are you all right?" the older nation asked as he lifted the latch and opened the door to find a disheveled Canada.

"Mhm." He nodded and tiptoed inside. "It's kinda dark…"

"Oh, goodness, yes. But don't you worry. I'll light some candles to brighten things up. There's the fire going, too—you look cold. Go sit over there."

Canada complied. In reality, there was still plenty of light both in and out of doors, since the sun had only just begun to creep past the horizon. Nor did he feel the least bit chilly. He had been born in the cold, after all: his blood practically teemed with snowflakes and ice crystals. England was just overreacting, he thought as he drew his knees to his chest, crossed his little feet, and watched the unfamiliar man bustle about the small house in search of even a single candle.

"Over there."

"Pardon?"

"O-Over there." Canada pointed to a small wooden box near England's feet. "Papa keeps the candles in there."

"Oh, yes. Thank you, child."

"You're welcome," said Canada, trying to remember the manners France had taught him.

Within moments, England had lit several candles arranged around the kitchen and parlor, with a larger one to carry down the hallway when they went to bed.

"There," he said, sitting beside the young nation before the hearth, watching the flickering light playing off the walls as it waltzed with the shadows and orange sunset glow. "Isn't that better?"

Unsure of what to say, the child nodded. England paused.

"Did you have fun playing outside?"

"Yes."

"…What did you do?"

"I… I played in the leaves."

"Well, was it fun?"

"Yes."

"Is everything all right?"

The boy fidgeted under England's concerned stare. He had never been good at voicing his needs or wants. France understood that, but this new nation did not. And, as if to add insult to the injury of not having his Papa beside him, this strange Englishman compensated for the emotional distance between them by being too smothering, too anxious to attend to his charge's every _hint_, real or otherwise, of discomfort.

"W-Well…"

"Do you miss France? Are you tired? Do you want something to eat?"

"Yes!"

"Yes to which one?"

"A-All of them…"

"Oh." England looked at his feet. Then, he put his hand on the toddler's head. "I'm sorry that I can't bring France back for you, but how about you just sit there to warm up while I make us something to eat?"

Canada shivered a little underneath the strange, heavy hand. "I don't think you'll have to do much… Papa said something about leaving lots of things he'd prepared already."

"Oh. Did he now."

"Yes," Canada said, unaware of the damage he was dealing to the Briton's ego. "Um… and one m-more thing."

"Mm?"

"You might want to move the candles in the kitchen. I think he said something about being afraid of it burning down."

"Ahaha… I'm quite sure he didn't say that, Canada. Yes, yes, surely he must have meant something else. Most certainly."

England's nervous chuckles faded into silence.

"Right. Something to eat. I'll get after that."

Canada's tiny tummy rumbled for nearly a hour before he had a plate of food clearly made by a Frenchman but assembled by an Englishman.

"Um…"

"What?" England looked at him from across the wooden table full of candles.

"Aren't you going to eat something?"

"I'm not that hungry. I'll probably have something later. Tea is enough for me—at least, it would be, if I could get some. Too much of a luxury, you know? Ah, but you're too young to be worrying about such things."

He smiled. Canada wanted to melt into the floor like the hot wax dripping off the candles. Maybe England would pay as much—or as little—attention to him as he was to the oozing, viscous liquid.

It would be better if both of them had food, he thought. He wouldn't feel as much like an inconvenience.

"What's wrong now?" England leaned over a little. "Is the food bad? I believe it, given that France made it."

Canada shook his head and gripped his spoon.

"Then what is it? Do you feel well?"

A nod. England chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"I can't keep guessing. Please tell me."

The child felt the words bubbling up. Like a cresting wave, they threatened to spill out of him and drown both him and England with their ferocity. He wished he could bury them beneath fake nods and smiles and pretenses, but he could not any longer.

"Do you need help eating? Is that it?"

"Yes!"

Canada burst into tears.

In an instant, England was at his side, not entirely sure what to do but determined to try anyway.

"Good heavens, you poor thing." He tried to brush the tears away as they dripped down the nation's cheeks, but the boy pushed him away, his fear giving him a strength he hadn't known he possessed. Canada hated needing things from anyone, but especially from a stranger. France had slowly talked him out of his hesitancy (to an extent, at least; his walls came down very gradually), but this new man had scared him into regressing. "I'll help you."

"N-No." Canada shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was shy enough; the additional pressure had eventually made his emotions explode. "I'm-I'm gonna go to bed now."

He pushed himself off his chair. England reached out to put a hand on his shoulder but decided against doing so.

"Are you sure you'll be okay with that?" he asked, Canada having picked up the largest candle in its holder.

He nodded through his tears; then, like a wailing spirit, he sobbed and disappeared around the corner, into the hallway, and to his room.

England didn't dare ask if he needed anything else. The outburst had scared him as much as it had the boy himself, he thought. Glancing down the dark hall, his brows furrowed, the Briton tried to remember any bit of information that he might have gleaned about this infant nation. From the little France had told him between spats, he knew Canada as a gentle, obedient boy with an enormous heart—a double-edged sword that gave him twice the capacity to experience good and bad emotions alike. And he was shy, as were many children his age.

_Maybe_, England thought, _since so many of us have been here and left as quickly as we've come… He's lonely, too? Frightened, especially of strangers?_

His heart ached. He knew all too well the reality of isolation and loneliness. England wanted to go after Canada, to hold him and reassure him. He took a step toward the hallway—but then he stopped himself. He had scared the boy enough already. "Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof," he remembered reading once, though in a different language. The nation didn't think he was quite applying the verse properly—didn't it mean something about not worrying about tomorrow, when taken in context?—but it seemed fitting given the difficult situation he found himself in. No sense in adding his own evil, his own pain, to what the day had already thrown at him.

Even if Canada's suffering wasn't entirely his fault, England's heart still wrenched at the thought of the small boy crying all alone in his dark room. He would try again tomorrow, he decided as he blew out some of the candles and considered going to bed himself.

But not before he spent some time thinking.

* * *

Canada tossed and turned. He had thought sleep would release him from the strange prison he'd crawled into by mistake, but it had only slammed the door shut behind him. Then, it had sent him nightmare after nightmare to keep him tormented and held secure in his fright.

_"No! Don't hurt Papa!"_

_"Please don't leave me alone."_

_"Someone! Please! Save me!"_

The child awoke with a gasp. Before he had a chance to grasp what was happening and where he was, he threw off his blankets and ran to France's room (where he slept most of the time, anyway) by instinct. The shock of finding his Papa's bed made and empty roused him completely from sleep, although he still couldn't think clearly enough to separate fact and fiction, which his mind had churned together. Shaking, Canada gripped the door handle in his tiny hands. The monsters had gotten France after all.

Now came his turn.

His breath hitching, Canada shut the door and tried to calm himself enough to think of what to do. He only had a few minutes to escape _them_, he thought. They would expect him in his room; he couldn't possibly return there!

Where could he go? The rest of the house was too dark, too scary for him to hide there. If they searched his room first and found it empty, they would go to the Frenchman's room straight away. They'd _find_ him, and then…

The child shook his head, his curls whipping around his tear-streaked face.

He had only one place to go.

As tiny sobs made him tremble like a city at the mercy of an earthquake, Canada opened the door to the extra bedroom across from France's. England's sleeping form almost made him run away. He too seemed a monster, but one not by virtue of sharp claws and pointy teeth but of unfamiliarity. He was a stranger, made so by circumstance and not by Canada's frightened mind. Just because fate had kept them apart by its strange designs until that day hardly meant Canada had to keep England at that distance. Even if fear and unfamiliarity vilified him, the small nation did not have to continue their act.

None of this crossed his conscious mind, of course. Not in the form of coherent thoughts, but rather in that of unraveling feelings. In his heart, two fears battled for supremacy. Two monsters waged war on each other, and in the midst of their struggle, as in the argument Solomon judged between the two women over the child, one proved itself not a monster at all: it fought to protect Canada, not to scare him; to shield him from a greater fear, not to embody that terror itself.

England was safer, Canada realized.

He tiptoed across the floor and crawled into bed beside the older nation. If he just lay down beside him, the monsters wouldn't find him. As long as the Briton didn't wake up, everything would be fine.

Or so the small nation thought until he heard one of the scary creatures clawing at the window.

Canada shrieked and, his heart momentarily stopping, froze.

Eyes wide, England sat up beside him.

"What's—oh, Canada, what are you doing here? Is everything all right?"

Now he'd gone and done it.

Canada crawled into a little ball of terror and tears.

Hesitantly, England put a hand on his back. The boy did not move.

_What would France do?_

England struggled to think of a way to comfort the child without scaring him all the more. Then, he remembered what he had thought of earlier in the evening after the incident over supper. He took a deep breath.

"_Mon trésor_," he said with an archaic accent, "_s'il te plaît_. Let me help you. Let me take care of you. It's all right. I can make everything okay—just _let me_."

"Mmffay."

"I didn't hear you, sorry." England leaned closer to the quivering country.

"Okay!"

He threw himself, sobbing and sniveling, into the older nation's waiting arms.

"Oh, sweetheart." The Briton held the boy close. "Little treasure. Here."

He pulled the blankets around them both. "I want you to tell me what happened."

"W-Well…"

"Go on. I want to hear. I _want_ you to tell me." He tousled Canada's curls the way France had before leaving.

"O-Okay. There were monsters chasing me and Papa. They got him, so I thought they'd come after me next, so I ran here 'cause I didn't think they'd look in this room. But then I heard one at the window and I thought it was going to get me and _Angleterre_ _please_ don't let it—"

"Sh." England rocked the toddler back and forth slowly, as if he were made of glass—and so his feelings were, given their infantine fragility. "Poor darling. I'm glad you came here and told me. That was a good thing to do, Canada."

The older nation rubbed the younger's back.

"And now, I think I know what to do about those monsters."

"Y-You do?" Canada looked up at him, strangely relieved to find him smiling.

"Yes. It'll work. But we'll have to be quiet, okay? You have to trust me and stay still."

A little less frightened, Canada nodded.

"All right, then." England stepped out of bed, both arms still wrapped securely around the smaller nation. He made his way to the kitchen, still illuminated by a few candles, and knelt down on the cold floor in front of a specific cabinet. Carefully, he pulled out the thick cloth he had hidden earlier.

"I wanted to finish this before I gave it to you," said England. He pulled the fabric free of the wooden hoops. "It's a blanket. I'm quite good with needlework. I thought I should finish the decorations first before I showed it to you, but I think it's best if you take it now."

He held out the blanket to Canada, who, after a moment's pause and a nod from the older nation, took it.

"Look," said the Briton. "See the design? It's unfinished, of course, but it's meant to be covered with snowflakes. And the cloth is purple, like France said your eyes were. You know what the best part is? It's a magic blanket. I put some of my magic in it to protect you. Can you feel it?"

The boy pressed the blanket to his cheek. It warmed him both inside and out, as if he had pressed it to his very heart.

"Yes." For the first time since France had left, Canada smiled. "Th-Thank you."

"You're very welcome, sweetheart. Now that you're safe from those monsters, what say you we get some sleep?"

"W-Wait." Canada clutched the blanket in his tiny fists. "I… want… to say something."

"Go ahead."

"I-I'm sorry, _Angleterre_."

England's heart flipped in his chest.

"Whatever for?"

"_Everything_." Canada let his gaze fall to the floor as he remembered pushing England away, yelling and crying and fearing everything.

"Oh, Canada. You have nothing to be sorry for, poor child. It's okay to be a little shy and scared." He smiled and patted the boy's head. "You know… This is our little secret, but I'm pretty shy, too. I know what it's like to be lonely, Canada. _I know_. It's all right. But I don't want you to apologize—"—he placed Canada's hand on his strong chest, just over his heart—"—for what's in here. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm glad you understand. You're a good boy, Canada."

"That's what Papa tells me."

England chuckled. "It's true. Come, let's get some sleep."

"Together?"

"Together."

He picked up the child and wrapped him in the blanket.

_"What's that? You think I'm good with children? Is this another joke of yours?"_

_"Non, I really think you are."_

_"How so?"_

_"You're good with them in an unusual way. You're just… good at _protecting _them."_

_"Protecting?"_

_"Yes. You protect them. From their fears and worries, big and small. You can keep them safe."_

And thus England did from night until morning as Canada slept in his arms, curled up in his blanket covered with unfinished snowflakes like thoughts and wishes that swirled around him in a flurry of warm magic and love that protected him—unconditionally.

* * *

Blech. This deviated quite a bit from the original request. It was just supposed to be Canada hating England at first until he needed comfort after a nightmare, and I turned it into this... Oops, I guess?

I based Canada's shyness and hesitancy to ask for anything on some children I've known and taught in the past to make my portrayal more realistic. Lots of kids are like that. Fortunately, they grow out of it, as Canada does. To the point where it's not as extreme, at least.

**"Brown" **is next, I think. At this point, I'm planning to make it a high school AU focusing on **Canada**. But, as I've only written an AU once before, and don't care that much for high school or human AU's in general, we'll see.


	17. Brown

**Prompt: **Brown

**Characters: **America and Canada, with France and England coming in at the end.

**Notes: **Due to some time constraints and things happening in real life, I decided to write the AU for a different theme.

I'm so sorry for this chapter. I wrote it while _incredibly_ tired, and I honestly don't know if it's any good at all.

* * *

Canada trudged inside, stopping for a moment in the mudroom to remove his slush-covered shoes and snowflake-spangled coat. His cheeks flushed from the cold, he placed his hat and gloves on the nearby bench and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He had to wait through a few rings (_oh, come on, I'm sure you have your phone right by you_), before his brother answered.

"Hello?"

"America?"

"Um… who is this?"

Canada rolled his eyes. "Not. funny."

"Chill out. I was just kidding. What's up, little bro?"

"How many times have we been through this? _I'm _older—"

"Did you say something?"

"Yes—oh, forget it. Do you have a lot of work today?"

"Not really."

"M'kay. It seems things have been rough for France and England lately. They're having something of a bad week."

A pause. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Why else would I have called you?"

America ignored his brother's question. "D'you have everything we need? Where are you right now?"

"As long as you don't decide to use anything too wacky, I think so." Canada peered into the shelves of his pantry and refrigerator. "Mhm, looks like it. I'm in Montreal at the moment, and I think they're in Gatineau or Ottawa—the capital region, at any rate—for something. They're somewhat close, fortunately."

"Sweet, I'm in New York, so I'll be right there!"

Without waiting for a reply from his brother, America hung up, and Canada found himself listening to silence.

He smiled all the same.

This would be a fun day.

* * *

"Holy _shit_!"

America rushed into Canada's house and slammed the door shut behind him. Canada peered around the corner into the mudroom and found his brother pulling his coat tightly around himself and trying to keep his teeth from chattering. His face looked as though he had just licked a lemon.

"Why is it so _cold_ here?"

America needed no answer; Canada did not bother to give him one.

"How'd you get in here? I locked the door."

With a smirk, America pulled a key dangling from a thick string out of the pocket of his jeans.

"Ah. Right. I gave that to you."

"Hey, look what I brought!" said America as he pulled his shoes off (at Canada's request—the last time his brother had come into the house with his shoes on, he'd tracked mud and snow everywhere and nearly got a lifetime ban from all things Canadian). He held up a paper bag. "Maple syrup!"

"Oh, no." Canada crossed his arms, which made the American laugh. His brother just couldn't look threatening, no matter what he did. Deep down, he loved that about him. In the face of the world's belligerence, his brother was a quiet bastion of peace. "Get that out of my house."

"Psych! It's from your side of our magnificent border."

Canada sighed with relief. "It's fine, then. Why'd you bring it? You know I have more than enough maple syrup—"

"To mess with you."

"…You got three bottles of maple syrup for a stupid joke?"

America nodded. Canada facepalmed.

"Well, that and because I need some for these cookies."

The elder of the brothers decided he probably shouldn't ask.

"Let's get to work. I've got the oven on and everything."

"All right! Time to save England!"

"You like saying that, don't you?" Canada asked. He walked alongside his brother to the small kitchen—hardly big enough for the two to be baking together—and set beside the oven the bags of flour and sugar he'd gotten from the nearby grocery store while he'd been waiting for America to arrive. He knew they'd both need plenty for their special treats.

"Well, I _am_ pretty good at it. You gotta admit that."

Canada chuckled but didn't answer: he was too lost in his search for his special recipe, the one he'd pasted into an old photo album that he'd turned into a cookbook. Inside he had recipes from many different nations: France and his chocolate mousse, Japan and his sashimi, Italy and his "perfect pasta!"… So many of his friends had contributed to his culinary anthology and made copies for themselves, too. Except England, of course. They hadn't let him. America, too, had almost had his entry for something called "Kansas Dirt Cake" removed, until some of the braver nations had tried it and decided it was pretty good, after all. Flowerpot and gummy worms and mushy Oreos and all.

Ah—there his was. Canadian Brownies. Canada took a moment to savor the smell reminiscent of the woods that came from the cedar bookshelf and the clean-yet-musty scent of the old recipe book; then, he returned to America's side, clutching the old book as if it were a cozy blanket.

"You make the cookies for England, and I'll make my brownies for France. Sound good?"

"Yeah, that works." America nodded. "I hope you have lots of chocolate chips, because these cookies are going to be _packed_ with them."

"Don't worry, I got you an extra few bags."

"…Say that again."

"'Bags'?"

"Dude. I will _never _get over the funny way you say that word."

"Remember, I can always kick you out of my house."

America rifled through one of the cupboards above the stovetop until he found a large mixing bowl. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Then where would I sleep?"

"Hmm." Canada didn't question America's sudden decision to stay the night; he had long since gotten used to his brother inviting himself over for extended periods of time. "Good point. I'll just make you sleep on the floor."

"That's _cold_."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. And that's not funny."

America stuck his tongue out at the Canadian.

Within a few moments, both brothers had lost themselves in their baking, America in particular. The other nations who criticized his kitchen skills had never tasted his chocolate chip cookies. In fact, most of them had forgotten that the classic sweet had been created by one of _his_ people. No one did cookies and milk better than the American, not even France. He never failed to laugh a little at the fact that he had somehow inherited England's lack of taste (or so the others said) but not his utter lack of even the most basic of culinary skills. No one really understood his cuisine, to be sure. Their confusion (and, on occasion, disgust) didn't undermine his ability to make nearly anything his people enjoyed. From Philly cheesesteaks to apple pie, from barbequed ribs to these special chocolate chip cookies, he could do it all.

Especially when England was having a bad day.

"Hey, Canada."

Canada looked up from his thin batter, to which he had begun to add cocoa, staining it with splotches of brown powder.

"Hmm?"

"You remember that one time when we were growing up and France made a cake and found us playing in it later?"

The slightly older nation laughed and dumped the rest of his cocoa powder into the mixture. "We were _skating_ in it. It was all over the place. I don't think the frosting came out of your hair for days."

"Probably because Iggy couldn't keep me contained long enough to get it out."

"Didn't you go streaking through the house one time to avoid having to take a bath?"

America dumped a sackful of flour into the mixing bowl, sending a poof of white dust flying into his face. Between coughs, he said, "Yeah, that probably happened… more than once."

"Be careful with that stuff."

"What? It's just flour. Can it really do any harm to anyone?"

"In the hands of someone like England?"

"Ah." America added a few cups of white and brown sugar, then began to mix the powdery conglomeration of ingredients. It didn't look like much at the moment, he knew, but once he put everything together, it would be the perfect antidote for a bad week. "I guess you've got a point."

Carefully following each bullet point of his recipe, Canada took the bag of flour from his brother and added a few cups before pulling his tins of baking powder and salt from a cupboard. He had always been good at both cooking and baking, having learned from the best. From an early age, his Papa had let him stand on a chair while he made supper, picking up jars of spices and containers of condiments and explaining in detail how to use each one. Then, when he was a little older, France had allowed him to cook for himself whenever he wanted to. Of course, the first few times he had tried to do so had only produced disasters and charred messes. But the Frenchman had taught him life lessons—patience and persistence—along with kitchen skills, and his next few attempts had turned out much better.

Now he got to use his gift to give back, to put a smile on a sad face and return laughter to a tired soul.

"We were lucky."

"Why? Because Iggy didn't kill us with his cooking?"

"Well, that's not quite what I was going for, but yes." Canada reached into his bottomless stash of maple syrup tucked into the back of his pantry and, opening one of the thick glass bottles, poured the trickling golden-brown liquid into his dark, thick batter. The syrup glimmered in its container, giving it the appearance of a leaf made of pure gold and amber. The smell comforted him as much as did the presence of his brother at his elbow (although he didn't appreciate having to bat America's hands away so he wouldn't dip his fingers in the unfinished brownies). "I meant we were—are—lucky to have a family like ours. To grow up the way we did."

"Yeah. You're right."

They'd had many struggles, both brothers knew. During the Seven Years' War and _Le Grand Dérangement_, the American Revolution and the War of 1812, once they had grown up, their family had slowly fallen to pieces. Perhaps it had been inevitable; maybe tensions had always been there, behind slammed-shut and locked doors where the brothers had not been able to see and hear them. For nearly one hundred years, they had lived in pain, all four of them driven apart by the American-English rift. Canada had only been able to see his Papa from the other side of battlefields, across which he wanted to run and throw himself into his arms and cry and beg it all to _stop_ and go back to the way it had been before. He had always loved England. But the Briton couldn't fill the France-shaped hole that had eaten away at his heart for years.

America, too, had struggled. He had wanted to fight England and England alone for his freedom, instead of fighting against Canada, who had been dragged into the war against his will. He had wanted nothing but peace. And he had had to wait for decades for it.

They had suffered. They had bled at the hands of one another.

The hearts of nations were twice as big as those of humans, both brothers remembered. They could feel twice the hurt, twice the pain, twice the betrayal.

But they could also love twice as much. They could forgive faster and heal more quickly. They had a greater chance of injury but an even greater capacity for mercy. For each wound, they had twice as many moments of joy.

And, when all the wars had ended and they had been reunited as a family again, France, America, Canada, and England had all chosen love over hate to put themselves back together again, as individuals and as a whole.

Silently, America and Canada thanked each other and the two older nations. The brothers looked at each other and smiled, able to guess their thoughts that mirrored each other.

"Let's get these in the oven," said Canada, pouring the rest of his batter into a pan covered with butter and flour. "I don't think we'll be able to make it to the capital today yet—"

"All the more reason for me to spend the night!"

"—Of course. But on the floor if you don't get your fingers out of my batter."

"Aww, c'mon, you're no fun!" America stuck his tongue out at his brother again before returning to his cookies. True to his word, he had packed them full of milk and semi-sweet chocolate chips and even drizzled a little maple syrup over the batter once he had everything mixed together. Unlike his brother, who had followed a time-tested-and-proven recipe perfectly, down to the number of drops of maple syrup, America always threw everything together on a moment's instinct. No two batches of his cookies were the same. He preferred the spontaneity and freedom it allowed.

"If I'm not, we won't have any left for France and England. You'll get one later."

Once the brownie pan and cookie sheet were slid into the oven and the timer set, Canada made hot chocolate on the stovetop for both himself and his brother (although the latter drank most of it), adding several tiny marshmallows and a few dashes of cinnamon and nutmeg to each mug the way America liked. Until the timer went off and they took their sweets out of the oven, they sat together on the living room couch, Canada wrapped in the blanket England gave him so many centuries ago and America beneath one of France's old quilts, and laughed about stories from years long passed but not dead, days long gone but kept alive in their hearts.

And somehow, the words made them children again, living vicariously through their memories every moment England yelled at America or France rocked Canada to sleep, each time they got lost in the woods or their guardians snarked at each other from across the table.

In many ways, they had grown up, but their hearts had remained the same age, always young, always loving—always belonging to their family.

* * *

"Okay, here's the plan. We're gonna run up to the offices they're using and knock-knock ditch 'em. We'll meet back here and… well, I dunno from there. Got it?"

"Um… wouldn't it make more sense for us to go together? I'll go with you to give England his cookies, and then we can go to the French embassy and give these to Papa." Canada held up the plastic-wrapped blue tray of brownies in his arms.

"…Weren't you listening? That's totally what I said! Gosh, Mattie, you must be going deaf or something."

Long since accustomed to his brother's habit of backtracking to cover up his mistakes, Canada just shrugged.

"Don't make too much noise and get caught."

"Oh, _please_. Me? Get caught?"

"It's happened before."

"Whatever." America stared up at the British High Commission, an enormous rectangular blue-grey building surrounded with snow and naked trees. "Sure is a boring looking building. Perfect for England to be working in."

Canada shrugged. It _was_ quite ugly. Dull and unhappy insofar as a building could be, much like England the last time the Canadian had spoken to him.

"Okay, let's go help Iggy!"

Once inside, the brothers found the elevator. Fishing a scrap of paper out of his pocket, Canada looked it over and said, "He's on the fifth floor. Office number 530."

"Gotcha." America pressed the appropriate elevator button.

Within moments, they stepped out of the elevator. Despite the strange looks the officials in the halls and conference rooms gave them (both nations looked a little out of place in their hoodies and jeans and with their desserts), America and Canada had no trouble finding England's office (or, rather, _Canada_ had no trouble; his brother insisted that they were going the wrong way, to which the Canadian replied that it was _his_ and England's embassy, eliciting a few confused looks from some nearby interns). To their relief, the door was closed.

"You knock," said America, trying to whisper. "I'll put these down on the floor in front of the door, and then we _run_."

Canada nodded. He waited for his brother to set down the plate of cookies; then, he rapped on the door a few times with his knuckles, and they were off.

Down the hall and past the suspicious interns they ran, stifling their laughter with arms pressed over their mouths and cheeks bit between their teeth. Just before they rounded the corner that would hide them from England, Canada tripped over the carpet and would have fallen on his face had America not grabbed his hand. Instead of dragging him along behind him or pulling him to his feet, however, the younger brother swung the older through the air and nearly threw him into the wall.

"Oops."

He did tend to forget his own strength at the most inconvenient of moments.

America pushed his brother into the elevator the moment the doors started to open and mashed the button for the first floor until they finally closed, sealing the two off from the flurry of sidelong glances and frowns that the officials had directed their way.

Both collapsed to the floor in fits of laughter.

"I don't think I'm _ever_ going to be let back into this building, Al."

"Oh, nonsense." America waved his hand back and forth. "It's not like we did anything _that_ bad."

"I guess not. I think that's the most noise I've made anywhere, though. No thanks to you."

"Just giving you the notoriety you deserve, bro. Where we off to next?"

* * *

"Let's be a little quieter this time," said Canada as he parked his car in front of the French embassy only ten minutes from the Commission. "Just a _little_."

"No prob!"

"…Yeah, you already blew that one." Canada checked his piece of paper again. "Third floor, office 20."

"At least this building's prettier," said America.

If the British High Commission had been an ugly shack, this was a mansion. The French embassy wasn't quite as big, but it looked as though someone could actually live there. With its grey stone exterior and cozy interior, the building resembled a mountain chateau where the wealthy and famous could spend their Christmas vacations.

_Their buildings definitely reflect them well_, Canada thought with a smile as he thought of his grumpy English brother and his elegant French Papa.

The two nations had a much easier time getting into this building and up to the third floor with less suspicion. No one glanced their way, although given that only a few people were strolling through the halls, their unremarkable entrance was hardly an accomplishment.

"Aw, crap."

"What, Al?"

"The door." America pointed to France's office at the other end of the hallway. "It's open. What are we gonna do now?"

Canada thought a moment, looking at the tray of brownies in his arms. Despite the cold winter weather, the frosting had begun to melt a little, smearing the plastic wrap with maple and chocolate.

"I guess we can push them in front of the door or something and run away. He might not even notice. And if he does, it's no different than when we knock-knock ditched England. He'll still see or hear something, but by the time he comes to the door, we'll be gone."

"Oh, so it doesn't matter. You hear that, Matt? It's not a big deal."

Canada didn't even bother to roll his eyes.

"I'll slide them in front of the door," he said. "Then we'll take off. _Quietly_. And without almost sending me through a wall."

"Gotcha on the first part, not sure about the second."

On all fours, looking around to make sure no one was watching, the Canadian pushed the tray in front of France's office. It barely inched past the doorframe; Canada had to nudge it twice more before he decided his Papa could probably see it.

"Go!"

At the sound of a chair squeaking and footsteps from the office, he picked himself up and ran after his brother down the hall, his heart thudding and his muscles twitching from the adrenaline. Canada wanted to burst out laughing again, but he fought the tickling in his stomach from which his nervous giggles seemed to emanate.

Unfortunately, keeping quiet wasn't enough to save him from getting caught.

This time, it was the younger brother who tripped over himself and crashed to the floor, Canada not being quick enough to grab the hood of his sweatshirt and steady him.

"What are you two doing?"

Canada gulped. America waved.

"Oh, hey there, France! We're not doing anything, I swear! Nuh-uh, nothing at all! No suspicious—ow, hey!"

America held his side where his brother had nudged him just a bit too sharply.

"It's a bit of a long story, Papa."

France raised an eyebrow.

"I get that impression, yes. Good thing it's just the perfect afternoon for a long story." He waved his hand, gesturing for the brothers to come into his office. "I'd love to hear it, especially if it involves these brownies."

* * *

"…And that's how it happened," said Canada between bites of his brownie and sips of milk, which France had gotten from a refrigerator down the hallway at America's insistence.

"You thought England and I were having trouble at work, so you two made us cookies and brownies?" France laughed out of amusement and happiness both. "Oh, that's the most adorable thing I've heard all week."

Canada smiled, while America struck a heroic pose, though he wasn't sure what to think of being called "adorable."

"Thank you, both of you. A laugh like this—and sweets as good as these—was just what I needed to cheer me up. I'm sure England feels the same."

"Why don't we call him?" America snatched up another brownie and took a long swig of his glass of milk. "I'd love to hear what he thinks of my _awesome _chocolate chip cookies."

"Good idea." France picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk and pushed the "speaker" button. "This ought to be fun."

After a few rings, the Briton answered the phone.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Now, now, that's no way to treat your family, is it?"

Canada snickered, trying once more not to burst out laughing. America didn't even try to hold in his guffaws.

"Wait, what's going on over there?" On the other end of the line, England adjusted the phone to hold it closer to his ear. The words swirling through the hallway about "those two young thugs" had gotten too loud for his liking.

"Dude, Artie, you like your cookies?"

The Briton looked at the half-empty plate of chocolate chip cookies on his desk. Someone had placed them outside his door half an hour ago, and although he had been a bit suspicious initially, he hadn't been able to stop eating them since he had taken the first bite.

"…_You_ made these?"

"Of course I did!" America jumped to his feet and began waving his hands excitedly, even though he knew England could not see him. "Matt had me come over to his house because he said you and Frannie here were having an off week, and y'know how sometimes I'll bake cookies for my people when they're upset? I totally thought—"—here America ignored his brother's quiet protests that it had been _his_ idea—"—that we could do the same for you guys. What do you think?"

England paused. France and the two brothers leaned in closer to the phone in anticipation for his answer.

"I think…" He reached for another cookie. "That you all are the weirdest family I could ever ask for."

France, America, and Canada couldn't see the smile on his face or the nostalgic look in his eyes, but they could hear them in his voice, and that was enough for them.

They were all nations: they had all suffered, had all experienced bad days and chaotic weeks, had all known pain at each other's hands.

But with kindness and laughter, they could face any battle and forgive any hurt, just as long as they stood united side by side.

* * *

Random Notes that Have Nothing to Do with History:

"Kansas Dirt Cake" is amazing. You make it with instant pudding, mashed up Oreo cookies, and a bunch of other things all mixed together in a flowerpot with gummy worms on top. We love it here in the Sunflower State.

I'm sure other people have made brownies with maple syrup before, but the recipe I have Canada using is my own. I call them "Canadian Brownies," too. They're _delicious._ :D On the subject of Canada, regarding the "bags" thing: I don't know why, but it's a little like "about" vs "aboot" where Americans make fun of the Canadian raising of vowels. The a in "bags" sounds a little different from the way most Americans would pronounce it. It kinda comes out more like the a in "vague," for example. It seems to be most common in southwestern Ontario. I've heard people joke about this a couple of times, but since it's apparently more obscure than about/aboot, thought I'd mention it here.

My headcanon is that while Canada is the older of the two NA brothers by just a little bit (I still can't decide if I think they should be twins...), America always tells people he's older. And they believe him.

Oh, also... unfortunately, I go to this place called "college" in a weird continuum known as "reality." This "college" thing is starting up again in less than a week. I intended this to be my last update for the summer. I don't know how my updates will pan out once classes start. I plan to post something at least once a week, but I'll let you guys know if that changes once school starts and I get an idea of how busy I will be.

But **thank you so much** for making my summer so wonderful. All of you who read this little fic, regardless of whether you review/fav/follow/whatever.

Whenever I get to it, **"Black" **will be next and will feature the whole family. It'll be a **WWII **fic, too.


	18. Black

**Prompt: **Black

**Characters: **France, America, Canada, England

* * *

America's heart was thudding in his chest, leaping into his throat with every wave of the tempestuous ocean that rocked his boat and threatened to throw him into the water. Although the weather could hardly be called inclement, the young nation's mind magnified each cresting spray of foam and each dark cloud swelling with ominous promises of rain. Fortunately, the sky was just clear enough for the pilots and the sea barely calm enough for the foot soldiers, beside whom America crouched in a shaky dinghy, gun clenched in his steady hands.

He feared nothing. Not defeat—who could hope to thwart this plan?—not death (he and his men had strength and surprise on their side), and certainly not despair: his valor, his hope, was almost too great even for his own heart to contain. As far as he was concerned, he was invincible. He had steeled himself long since to accomplish his singular mission.

He would save France.

* * *

Canada sat on the beach and waited for the boat to arrive—the one that would ferry him and thousands of others to life or death, to victory or defeat. And all the while, the fate of a man more precious to him than words could express or mere feelings could fathom hung in the midst of it all, a swinging pendulum whose motion depended on the movement of a clock yet somehow caused those delicate hands to move all the while.

Their fates formed a web. Canada's was tied to France's, whose destiny that day linked with his like a Chinese finger trap: the harder someone tried to pull them apart, the stronger they became.

He would fight like a hell hound that day.

* * *

England's feet sank into the sand, entombing his legs up to his knees. Still, he ran.

Gunfire exploded around him, auditory shrapnel that pierced his eardrums the way the moans of the mortally wounded stabbed his heart.

Still, he ran. He ran through the muck and the mire, past the waves and onto the dry land toward the enemy. The foe that had imprisoned and captured his long-sworn rival and yet his friend, his companion. His fellow nation.

No one else messed with France and swaggered away.

_No one_.

In the midst of the flurry of bullets and the pain in his legs, despite the punch of emotion in his heart and the chaos of battle, England smiled.

_We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender._

And so England fought, with the rage of Achilles murdering the river god and congesting the sand with blood and bodies and footprints that took him closer to France. So he fought, with all the determination and cunning of Odysseus with the strength and speed of Hector. Just as he transformed into a great hero of legend, so too did the battleground metamorphose into the slaughter before the gates of Troy. England never stopped running or fighting, but all of a sudden, everything that had been blurry coalesced into a single comprehensible image. One with men struggling for last gasps of air and last words of farewell, with paratroopers dropping from the skies and airplanes screaming overhead.

England's hat and mask clung to his face a little tighter, as if bonded to his very skin.

How much longer, he wondered as his legs begged him to give out but his soul screamed at him to continue, oh, how much longer? He knew well the sad reality of war, a convoluted mess of arguments that became battles, an inevitability that no one could ever know how to prevent. Still, tragedy may have begun to feel commonplace, but it never became routine. England still instinctively backed away with his hands held up in fists to protect himself. No matter how many bad things happened, or how callous he professed to be, he still tried to fight back, still sought happier days for himself and his family.

He never found himself truly numb. Part of his soul always discovered a voice.

And eventually, it was always heard.

"Francis!"

* * *

High above the ground, hanging from a rope ladder, America lost his balance for one heart-stopping second when a rung snapped beneath him. A hundred feet down, rocky ground awaited him, almost certain to kill if he fell.

He would not. With secure hands and strong arms, America hauled himself up the ladder, dodging gunfire. Four miles he had run already—four miles past gauntlets of guns over rocks and sand on Omaha to this cliff—but he still had farther to go and no time for snapped ladders or nagging fears.

Or for the bullet that shot through his left leg.

For a second, America had no idea that he had been injured. He kept climbing without stopping until all of a sudden, he could move no faster. His leg limp and heavy, America glanced down. He grit his teeth at the sight of the quickly spreading red stain on his calf. That would hurt like an absolute _mother_ later, he knew. Nothing to do about it now. Nothing left but to climb, to fight, to avoid getting shot again.

Blind to the future, America could not see past this moment, this battle and its urgency.

* * *

Canada fell.

His mouth full of sand and his body soaked from the seawater, he pushed himself to his feet in a practiced maneuver that launched him back into a dead run toward the city. The warmth burning deep within told the nation he had to be close. The little town nearby with its antiquated buildings and scattered people awaited them from wherever they had fled. And somewhere his Papa waited with them, consciously or unconsciously. Could he feel his son running to rescue him? Did he know he would soon rediscover freedom?

Most important of all—how _was _he, and did Canada really want an answer?

His struggle intensified without and within as he ran, the city suddenly never seeming to move closer but to creep farther and farther away. As much as he wanted to hope, as much as he tried to believe, Canada could not silence the nagging voice in the back of his head that found the scab on his heart and picked at it with slimy, insistent fingers.

_What if? _

The scab began to bleed.

Fear was a horrendous feeling. He had seen it in his Papa's eyes just before Germany and Italy took him away on that horrible afternoon. He and England had run as fast as their feet would take them to the shore where they could evacuate with their troops across the Channel to freedom. "The Miracle of Dunkirk," Mr. Churchill called it. When Canada remembered France shoving him into the boat beside England, he could only consider it half a miracle, a wonder that would remain unfinished until the city could be free again.

_"Vas-y, Canada! Vas-y!"_

_"Non!" _

England's arms enveloped him again, pulling him back into the merchant boat some kind Frenchman had sacrificed, knowing the Germans would probably destroy it anyway. Planes soared overhead, a tiny flotilla took off from the shore, and men ran to safety. They could save themselves. They could not save France, whose fate had been sealed already. He understood that.

Canada had not—and, on some level, did not.

"_Canada, there's no time. Let's go."_

_"No, England! We can do more—"_

_"Non, c'est pas possible!"_

_"Mais Papa—"_

_"_Vas-y_, mon trésor!"_

Then, France had thrown them both into the back of the boat and, with the last of his strength, pushed it away from the shore.

He had tried to hide the glint of fear in his eyes from Canada, but the younger nation had seen it all the same. He had seen it and sworn to finish that miracle, to complete the sacrifice. To fulfill their original goal: to save France.

_But what if?_

The Canadian winced at the internal pain of the oozing scab.

_What if what? _he thought, trying to reason with himself—and was the city really moving away from him?

_What if there's nothing left to save? What if you can't save him? What if you die first? What if America and England can't reach him? What if they die? What if this is all a failure and a war this bad can kill all of you? can kill him?_

The words ricocheted about in his brain like bullets that finally lodged in his heart and festered.

_Non._

Canada did not surrender. Not one of his men strewn about on the sand behind him—the first ones to fall—had surrendered, either. To fall was not to surrender, to sacrifice not to accept defeat. Only to dismiss the deaths of others was to lose.

And Canada did not lose.

The town came closer, the sloping roofs of disheveled houses and the tall steeple of a church visible in the middle of the village, an oasis of peace in the midst of a desert of war. Fortunately, this oasis was not a mirage but a true, concrete symbol of hope. A place for the nation to set his sight and steel his soul to run toward.

Here. Here he would meet England and America to find France. Here he would put their family back together.

He had only to take heart and remember his courage. Canada knew he was brave, but half the battle was _knowing _so, then using that knowledge to make himself take step after step without faltering, without hesitation, no matter what happened to him or to anyone. In the face of such deep-rooted understanding, all _what if?_ thoughtscould go to hell with all the enemies who had first made any of them tremble with fear, hidden or otherwise.

A bullet grazed his cheek. Instinctually, Canada jumped away, but the man behind him did not have the same luck or nimbleness. The nation winced not only at the string of French curses and grunts coming from the injured man but also because he could not turn around and carry him to safety—just as he had not been able to drag France onto the boat with them four war-marred years ago.

But Canada trusted, as he began the last mile before the city, that what he could not do now, he could finish later. He could avenge an omission, compensate for it by acting in the future. If he and England had failed to protect Dunkirk from the Nazis, if they had lost the Battle of France, they could win it and the war later. And every man the nation could not save now he could protect vicariously later through liberating the French people or treating one of his own when he returned to the medical unit.

For now, he had only to run and—he crouched on the sand behind the wreckage of a boat, aimed his gun, and shot a sniper hiding high up on the cliffs—to fight.

* * *

With a sigh, England leaned against the cool stone of a small house near the outskirts of the town, his gun slack in his weak grip and his arms hanging at his sides.

He had done it. They had seized Gold. The British held it in an iron grip, wrested it from their enemies by paying a price of blood. Now, he truly realized all at once just how much one beach had cost.

For the moment, he could—no, he _had_ to rest. Until Canada and America rendezvoused with him in the village, England could take a moment to lower his guard, to forget about the marches throughout the land and into Germany that would soon follow. Five beaches meant only putting a hand on the handle to open to the door to liberty that the enemy had shut. They would have to use so much strength, so much force. The battle had only just begun; the sun had barely started to rise.

Even so, the weight of the future did not dim the rays of warm morning light that sun gave off. England savored the hope in his heart, the reassurance that made him spit in the face of despair and march on no matter what.

He just prayed the others could feel it, too, wherever they were now.

"Arthur!"

England opened his eyes and looked around. Seeing no one, he called, "Matthew? Alfred?"

A rhythmic thud of footsteps and rustling of thick fabric as someone ran; then, the same voice, closer this time.

"Arthur? I'm—"

Canada rounded the corner and came to a halt before the other nation. He let out a deep breath. England, on the other hand, started.

"Matthew!" He ran up to his fellow country and grabbed his arm. "Where is it? Where'd it go?"

"What?"

"The _bullet_, you idiot, you've been shot—"

"No, no, I'm fine." The younger squeezed the elder's shoulders. "I'm _fine_. The last kilometer was… _rough_. But I fought my way through it."

The Briton paused. The other nation was covered in blood from his tousled hair and sweaty forehead all the way to his worn, dirty boots.

"_Shit._ No kidding."

"Yeah… Oh, and I'm kinda out of ammo."

England stared at Canada's apologetic half-grin for a second; then, although he could not explain why, he began to laugh.

"Have _you_ sure seen hell today."

Canada chuckled. He knew his guardian would not admit it, but he had fretted over him the entire landing until they finally met here, on the edge of a ghost town in the making. He too had felt his heart lurch a little at the thought of England fighting on Gold Beach, but, for fear of disturbing him by saying so, the Canadian remained silent.

"So," England said, sitting beside the house with the younger nation at his side, "how'd the rest of it go? Did you manage to secure the beach?"

Canada took a long swig of water from his canteen. "We're still fighting—the aerial raids didn't quite work—and it's slow going, but we'll make it."

"You really did get the worst of it. Oh well. I imagine Alfred should be joining us soon."

"Doesn't he have to get up Pointe du Hoc?"

England made a face in reply. For the next several minutes, every tiny noise made him jerk his head up and look around, wide-eyed. Each time, Canada would put a hand on his arm and shake his head. Not yet. _Something_ seemed to be stirring within the city, but it was not America—not yet.

The two nations waited in silence, Canada occasionally drinking more water and England staring at his feet when he wasn't jolting at the tiniest of sounds. Finally, when neither could stand the growing tension, Canada decided to speak up.

"You know what this place reminds me of?"

"Mm?"

"The little townships in Quebec. The ones along the border. It's summer now, but they're so peaceful in autumn. Everyone lives leisurely—they stroll through the leaves on the ground in the morning and make tea in the afternoon and eat cashews and soup with their evening wine... It's always so nice to visit during October."

Canada paused and looked at circle of buildings behind them.

"I bet this place used to be the same. I think it'll be like that again someday."

England heard another noise but did not jump to his feet this time. The younger nation smiled.

"He's here, Arthur. I can feel it. Once Al gets here, we'll find him. Things can go back to the way they were for us."

The Briton shook his head. "You're so young yet. You don't understand. It can't be the way it once was."

"…No. Not exactly the same. But does it matter?"

Once more, England caught a glimpse of the sun shining behind the door. He closed his eyes, and in his face, Canada could see past the heavy steel barrier, too.

"No. It doesn't."

* * *

Half-running, half-limping, America made his way into the village. He smirked at the trail of blood behind him (a tiny trickle now, thank goodness): anyone could follow and find him and then finish off what he had started. Of course, America had completed his rickety ascent without further incident and, their position established, had been beginning the trek to the rendezvous point when someone had shot him in the leg again.

It just wasn't his day, he thought, though without begrudging the day for being vindictive. None of them had treated it with considerable kindness, either.

The burning in America's lower leg had intensified as he had neared the village; now that he stood beside the first house within it, he could hardly walk for the pain. Maybe he'd have to find his brothers while crawling on his hands and knees. Wouldn't England just _love _that?

"Artie? Mattie?"

The nation clung to the splintered fencepost of the house and stood on his good leg. _Damn _did those gunshot wounds and lodged bullets ache.

"Where you guys at?"

The faint voices stopped. Then, someone called his name.

"Al?"

"Alfred!"

"Over here!"

With a small wobble, America pushed himself away from the fence and hobbled toward his brothers. He called out to them again and again. No one could possibly hear them in an abandoned village, nor could the enemies on the beaches follow their voices here.

Just as America was about to sink to the ground, Canada emerged with England from behind a tiny brick house down the broken cobblestone street. The two ran up to him, but not in time to catch him as he fell with a half-smile, saying, "The hero has arrived."

"Alfred!" England reached his side first. "You _were_ hit!"

Canada knelt beside them, his hand going to America's punctured calf.

"Twice. Two bullets. I think missed the bone. It'd be great to know how you managed to make it here."

"I'll tell you." America leaned on his brother's arm to stand, England hovering close by. "I am one lucky sonuvabitch."

"You've got that right." England sighed. "How are things? Did you secure Pointe du Hoc? Omaha?"

"Geez, so many questions at once. Chill out, injured guy coming through."

"Shut up."

"It was like taking candy from a baby."

"I'm _sure_."

Canada wanted to hug them both, to draw them close and keep the three of them whole by his embrace.

He didn't get the chance to do so.

"What was that?" England asked after a loud noise had rung out from inside one of the nearby houses—then, "Matthew? _Matthew!_"

The Canadian blinked a few times, shaking his head in confusion. His hands quivered for a moment; then, his gun clattered to the ground (not firing by some miracle), and his left arm fell useless at his side.

"Mattie?"

Then, the sound came again, closer this time.

Gunfire.

England caught both nations before they fell backward, his arm around America's shoulders and Canada against his chest. He lifted his gun and pointed it at the front window of the house, which the bullets and shrapnel had cracked. Before he could fire, however, Canada stepped on his foot, unable to knock the gun away with his bullet-riddled arms, and said, "No, Arthur, don't!"

Out of the corner of his eye, England looked at the younger nation and frowned.

"Why the hell not?"

America looked at Canada's wide eyes and, his heart twisting, understood.

"Shit."

"_What_?"

The American nudged England and jerked his head toward a figure fleeing through the streets and toward the church in the middle of the village. Canada put a hand over his heart.

It was colder than an alpine glacier.

"It's Papa."

_"I promise you, Canada, England, everything will be all right."_

_"America too can be our hope. There won't be a war left if we can get him to enter the conflict formally."_

_"There's still fight left in me. I'll see all of you again."_

England's mind raced. The French Resistance had known such success and had fought with such bravery. His people had shown such determination. He had seen it burning in France's eyes the moment he had abandoned him at Dunkirk.

Where had it all gone? How could something like this have happened to him? He had noticed his rival's gradual disappearance from the Allied meetings, of course, but the Englishman had chalked it up to internal issues and problems with the Nazi occupation (although to call them "issues" and "problems" was an understatement of greater magnitude than he usually employed). Not to something this great, to something disturbing enough to make him shoot his own son. More than once.

The chill in his heart told him he had been wrong. Very wrong indeed.

But it also let a plan take root in his mind.

"You two stay here," he said, guiding the two North Americans to the fencepost with its chipped white paint and protruding rusty nails. "Watch out for each other. Alfred, you do what you can to keep Matthew from bleeding too much—those arms look positively nasty. Matthew, you stay calm and start tending to those injuries."

"_Non_!" Canada said. "I have to go after him! I can't just _sit here_ and watch this happen to him!"

"Matthew." England paused to chew on the inside of his bottom lip. How to say this? "You should know better than any of us what could happen to you both now that you've already been wounded. You need to stay out of harm's way for now."

"And what about you?" Great, now he had America to deal with as well. "What if he goes after you and _you_ get shot, too? Who's gonna rescue and take care of you?"

"I'm not going to let that happen, Alfred. I've been dodging bullets all day as it is." England laughed, hoping to distract the two younger nations from the somber reality that their father figure had just lost his mind and shot at them. The Briton knew France had a frightening level of skill with a gun. Even from a distance, he could have shot Canada in the head or heart with ease. The fact that he hadn't was even more disconcerting and almost gave England pause. But he knew what he had to do. And, what was more, he knew _that_ he had to do it. "It'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll bring him back all right, and we'll figure out what to do from there."

"But—"

"_Alfie_."

Now America was listening. England hadn't called him Alfie since his childhood—since he had first named him, in fact. He had hardly expected ever to hear that name again.

"Look at Matthew and tell me why you think you need to come along."

The American stared at his slightly older brother leaning against his arm. The Canadian hadn't moved since England had last spoken to him—aside from his hands, at least, which he couldn't keep from shaking. His eyes stared ahead listlessly, emptily, without seeing anything. Had America been able to hear his breaths, he would have only heard a quick, shallow shuddering.

"He's in shock, Alfred. I—well, someone has to stay with him." England shook his head, wanting to lay a hand on Canada's head but knowing any movement or pressure might make him worse. "He's a fighter, no one doubts that. Remember Salerno and Sicily? But that was the Italians and a few Germans attacking him—the established enemy, not his own 'Papa.' I can't… I don't…"

England trailed off, but America understood.

"He's safe with me. I doubt there's anyone else here who would attack us, and if they do, well, let them come."

He flashed his brother a cheeky grin that England couldn't help but appreciate.

"I'll be off, then." The older nation gripped his gun and rose to his feet.

"Wait."

England turned. America had grabbed the back of his thick shirt and was gazing up at him with strangely soft eyes.

"Don't let him hurt you, too."

The older nation held his hand for a moment longer than he had to as he gently pried his fingers off the fabric.

"I won't." England clasped America's warm palm in his own; then, he let go and swiveled around on his heel toward the towering steeple in the center of the town.

_I don't want to have to worry about you, Artie. But you know I do anyway._

America wished he didn't have to let those words remain unsaid. Even so, he felt deep down that his older brother understood.

Just as long as they both returned—Arthur and Francis, England and France, the last members of their family.

The American inched closer to his remaining brother and laid a comforting, unwavering hand on his shoulder. Then, they began the long, intolerable wait.

* * *

The church door yielded without protest to England's sturdy hand. Without a moment's hesitation but with all possible caution—his gun at the ready, his footsteps stealthy as those of a sniper, his gaze alert and focused—he crossed the threshold.

The church was a simple Catholic parish, with an illuminated wooden crucifix hanging behind the stone altar and a few columns here and there dividing the handmade pews. A rack of dog-eared hymnals stood near a raised platform just beside the altar—a place for a cantor to stand and lead the people in song, England figured. The scarlet candle nailed into the wall beside the tiny chiseled tabernacle had no flame, making the nation wonder just how long ago the townspeople had left. Surely a few of them remained hidden within their homes, not quite desperate or afraid enough to leave altogether. Maybe their priest had been arrested under the puppet government, and ever since, they had not dared to set foot within the sacred walls.

He could certainly understand that.

"I'm here, Francis." England's voice reverberated off the tall stone ceiling. He walked into the middle of the church and set his gun on the ground beside him. What was fear, again? "I'm Arthur. I'm unarmed."

No response.

"No gun. No grenade. Nothing, _Francis_. Come out. It's _Arthur_."

A tiny movement from behind the altar made England take a step forward. He held his ground even as the Frenchman arose, tall, icy, from behind the stone that was no doubt as cold as England's own heart calmly beating inside his chest. France stared down the barrel of his gleaming gun at his ages-old rival.

"Hey."

France narrowed his eyes.

"_Ha_." England greeted him now not in modern French but in the Old French of their childhoods. "Fancy running into you here. Beautiful church, eh? Like the ones we've built in our countries for our people. Something pretty special, isn't it?"

The nation standing across the narrow nave moved only to lift his gun higher.

"What's the name of it, again?" England paused to pretend-think, one hand in a loose fist in front of his lips. "Ah, yes, I think I saw it coming in. _Notre Dame_. Our Lady."

He might as well have been talking to a wall (albeit a hostile one) at this point, but England knew that underneath that wall, something was crumbling. Just as erosion operated over thousands of years, so too did he need time to talk his friend out of his war-induced delusion.

"I know they're talking about a specific Lady, but don't you think the name is also quite open to interpretation? Think of all the lovely women this church could be named after—Marie de France, your own Little Flower, Henriette Marie… _Jeanne d'Arc_."

That merited a reaction.

France's swift charge did not faze England. As sure and sturdy as the church itself, he did not move even when the other nation put a hand around his neck and loomed over him, gun pressed to the Briton's temple. His eyes were dark and clouded but his gaze firm and piercing, a pretend clarity betrayed by obvious fear and instability. The younger nation had only to glance at those dark pupils and furrowed brows to know something had eaten away at the Frenchman's mind over time, had gnawed at his soul until he had finally snapped.

Still, England knew no fear. His soul always found a voice. And so would France's. It had already begun to stir within him; now he had only to stoke the coals of the reviving fire and avoid letting the blaze consume both of them in its fury.

"That's right. You remember her, don't you?" England smiled, although the saint's memory always hurt him a little. "She saved you so many times. She found you when you were afraid and almost beaten, like you are now. And she made you great. _Great,_ Francis. So powerful even I couldn't win against you."

The gentle midday breeze made the old church doors swing, knocking against each other with a soft clattering sound. The sun filtered through the stained glass windows, creating colorful patterns on the stone floor.

They were almost home.

"You loved her. Everyone knew it. She was too beautiful. You couldn't help it." The Briton looked upwards at the skylight in the center of the domed ceiling. "I don't think anyone could have."

France's fingers dug into England's neck.

"And you took her away from me."

Green eyes met blue ones, steel clashing against steel as in days of old.

"I did, Francis." England spoke more quietly now in contrast to France's loud voice. "At least, you say I did. I never took her away at all."

The Briton reached behind the other man grabbed a thin metal chain hanging around his neck. As quickly as he could—France had begun to choke him, his trigger finger trembling—he tugged on the chain and pulled it out from underneath his shirt.

A medal.

"'And we thank Thee that darkness reminds us of light.'"

England cast the die and let fate take its course.

Slowly, France looked down at the small medallion. On it the image of a woman had been engraved, her hair flying like her banner in an imaginary breeze. Beside the thin halo around her head was a sword and a fleur-de-lis. Their flower.

And, for some reason, she was smiling up at him, her eyes meeting his. Begging him to come back, to flee to her protection once more.

Black absorbed all colors, scientists said. France had heard some of his greatest physicists mention that before. Yet often, when he listened to their lectures, he couldn't help but think that if someone could just tap into that color, get under its skin somehow, they would find all those colors hidden within, stored up somewhere deep inside. They didn't just disappear, he knew. They always remained, hidden, buried, waiting for someone to discover them.

So it often was with people.

And even more so for nations.

He placed his gun on the ground beside England's and, releasing his neck, embraced him.

"Arthur."

The darkness didn't just leave his soul. It _fled_ before the image of the woman who had promised to protect him from afar and before the nation, the man, who had taken up the dangerous cross of chasing it away.

England had found the blackness. It hadn't scared him one bit; rather, it had encouraged him to keep digging, to keep fighting to find the colors contained within.

Now that he had found them, they shone more gloriously than ever, and their light warmed both their hearts again like the spring sun chasing off the winter chill.

"Nice to have you back," said England once France had stepped back. "Though I never thought I'd say that."

"Oh, _please_, my dear Arthur. Don't be so uptight." France giggled. "I'm kidding. What… What happened, exactly? I don't know how you could have gotten here… I'm _sure_ we're not in your country; this place is too beautiful for that."

"We call it Operation Overlord," said England, ignoring France's teasing for the moment though making plans to get back at him later. "You'll hear the details at some point. The boys and I came ashore and took some of the beaches. We're in Normandy now. We met up in this little town to find you."

"The boys? Alfred and Matthew? Where are they now?"

The flash of pain in England's eyes frightened the other nation.

"They were both wounded. Some of the beaches had heavy casualties and fighting. Alfred should be all right, although I can tell he's in a great deal of pain. Can't hide those things from me, you know. As for Matthew… we need to get him help. As soon as possible."

"I'll carry him as far as I have to. Take me to them."

On the outside, England nodded, but on the inside, his hands came up in front of his face again to shield himself and their entire family from the tiny remnant of blackness that threatened them still.

"Arthur?"

"What, Francis?"

"…Is it my fault?"

England couldn't decide whether he wanted to—or even if he could—give an answer.

* * *

Okay, so obviously, this demands a sequel. I built up a lot of different things here that still need to be resolved, the aftermath of France's attack on Canada being the most important. I _will _wrap that up in another theme, but I wanted to make them a bit separate for... reasons, I guess. Not because of time or length or anything, more like that it didn't seem to fit right all as one story posted at once, especially because this was meant to focus specifically on D-Day, while Canada's recovery will take place a while after.

Not a lot of French here, but just in case, "Vas-y" means "go," and "ha" is the Old French for "hello."

Historical Notes:

**D-Day**, or "Operation Neptune," the first part of "Operation Overlord" (the Battle of Normandy) took place on June 6, 1944 and was the largest amphibious assault in history. The Allies landed at five different beaches in Normandy: Omaha (where America is here), Utah, Juno (which the Canadians took), Sword, and Gold (where England is). Pointe du Hoc was a cliff between Omaha and Utah that the Americans took after heavy fighting. After their success in Normandy, the Allies went on to liberate Paris and fight their way into Germany. The bravery and successes of the Canadians in Operation Neptune and Overlord as a whole are, sadly, often understated (as is their presence at Salerno and Sicily during the Italian Campaign and subsequent invasion in 1943). Juno had some of the nastiest fighting and heaviest casualties, but they fought like crazy all the same.

**The "Miracle of Dunkirk" **occurred in 1940 once the French and Belgian troops were surrounded by the Germans and their defeat was inevitable. British and Canadian troops were evacuated from France en masse. Actually, the Winston Churchill quote that England remembers (the "we shall fight" one) referred to this evacuation, so it serves a dual purpose in the narrative. Also, Canadian troops liberated Dunkirk in 1944. Canada wasn't kidding when he said he'd avenge that day.

The line England quotes about darkness and light is from a T.S. Eliot play. He's one of my favorite poets ever. (And it makes sense to me that England would keep quoting poetry. He's such a little bookworm.)

**"White" **is up next and will feature the whole family again. It'll be another **Hetaoni-based** fic, but I promise it'll be a thousand times happier than "Red." It should also take me less time to upload; I don't seem to have a terribly busy schedule for the moment. Of course, real life is rather volatile, so we'll have to see what happens. (:


	19. White

**Prompt: **White

**Characters: **FACE

**Notes: **Holy _crap_, guys, this is the longest fic I've ever written. And I did a good two-thirds of it in one day. I'm not even sure at this point.

Also, I definitely need to stop saying that I'll do such-and-such kind of fic next, because, well, while writing this week, I realized I _really_ needed the sequel to "Black" in my life. Soyeahthat'ssortakindawhatally'allgotokay.

* * *

"Juno."

Canada groaned as he slowly came back to life, bouncing against England's shoulders as the older nation hurried out of the city and toward one of the field hospitals set up near Gold Beach. Behind him ran France, America across his back behind his neck (despite all the American's kvetching about having to be _carried_, of all things).

"Juno, we gotta take _Juno_ as soon as we can… ugh…"

"Matthew?" asked England. France too had heard Canada's slurred, confused words but hadn't dared to reply. "Matthew, are you awake? You all right?"

"Mmm… You're supposed to be at Gold and Sword… but we gotta make it to _Juno_."

"Don't you fret, Matthew, that's where we're going now. We already took all the other beaches." England spoke louder to cover the sound of France's muffled voice. "We're on our way to yours now. Are you ready to liberate France?"

"France? It's in France?" Struggling to stay awake—he had to keep going, else he wouldn't make it in time—Canada shivered and clung to England's shoulders. "No, nonono, I can't go to _France_. I can't _non je ne peux pas _go there _et Angleterre non _don't take me there _je t'en supplie non—_"

"Easy." America put a hand on France's shaking shoulders. It was a hard task, running while fighting back tears, though it was no harder than watching his son writhe in fear at the sound of his name and becoming so confused he mixed his languages. "You can put me down whenever you want."

As much as he hated to admit it, France did want to put America down and sit in the middle of the worn coastal path and go back to being crazy, if only just a little. If only his insanity would protect Canada instead of injuring him so mortally. He wanted to comfort him, but how could he hope to do so when he was the cause of his suffering in the first place?

He had given them so much trouble already. Had he just been a little stronger, had been able to resist the darkness in his very soul only a few months longer, none of this would have happened. He could have been a true nation, not a mockery thereof.

But France knew he had at least one way to atone for his horrible act, conscious or otherwise. He could be braver, faster, _better_. Better than the nation who crumbled under circumstances that only elicited laughter from a nation like Poland or Norway. Better than the man who had let the enemy overrun his friends, his family.

Better than the father who had tried to eviscerate his own son with bullet after bullet.

France forced himself not to break down. What good were tears? They could not undo the past or even bring him comfort and catharsis: they were simply tears of fear, with no power to change or cause anything.

"_Non. _I will carry you to the edge of Europe if I must."

_Even if it kills me, I will carry you. All of you._

* * *

America hated his doubt.

It wasn't his fault he didn't know more than one way to be strong. He only knew one definition of courage: never to falter, never to waver, never to do anything wrong. Never to feel pain.

Projecting his own ideals onto others never turned out well, especially when those ideals turned out to be harmful, on purpose or by accident. And especially when the targets of this inevitable force of thought were his fellow nations, those he saw as his family.

Canada could fight better than anyone ever expected, least of all America himself. Where the American had brute force and strength, Canada had determination and cunning. Or so the younger nation had thought. Listening to the Canadian's garbled Franglais and watching him tremble as England struggled to keep him calm, America had a sudden thought that he couldn't dismiss, no matter how hard he tried.

His brother couldn't really be a true fighter if he behaved like this when someone—someone who had been out of his mind—shot him a few times.

That, or America had to admit he was wrong.

He couldn't decide which he'd rather believe.

* * *

"Yes, Matthew, of course I've been to the Eastern Townships. Went there quite recently, in fact. Didn't you tell me that I had to go to Cowansville? Marvelous history, and so quaint a town, I think."

England paused for breath. The younger nation's face was still pressed against his shoulders and the rough fabric of his uniform, into which he whispered stutters of English and smatterings of French, none of which the Briton could understand.

"We're almost there, Matthew." In fact, as England squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight and stared at the horizon, he saw a series of scattered brown tents, each bearing the familiar red cross that protected them from attack. Good. _Safe._ "You must be quite ready to rest by now. Don't worry, we'll let you sleep soon. Yes, that sounds nice. We'll get you right patched up and taken care of."

At this point, England was speaking half for his own benefit, although he wasn't sure whether he needed reassurance or distraction. His legs burned as if they bore bullets lodged deep in his bones. His mind screamed, _go, go! _but his body replied, _no, stop._

He couldn't rest until his fellow nations could be cared for. Only after he had relinquished America and Canada to a doctor and made sure France hadn't begun to slip away again could the Briton collapse. Love exhausted him, burdened his heart, brought him pain.

Yet everything it took away, it gave back twofold.

"Matthew, do you know who I am?"

"_Angl—_no. England. You're _England_."

"Yes, good." The older nation grimaced but didn't dare look behind him to gauge France's reaction. He wanted to forget this was happening as much as the others did. Still, he could not give himself that luxury. "That's right. How do you feel, Matthew?"

England didn't get an answer this time, but the silence didn't bother him. In the distance, a group of British men carrying stretchers from the field hospital had begun to run up the steep, rocky hill to meet them. Only a few more minutes, the nation told himself, and the two wounded brothers would be in capable hands instead of the precarious limbo between injury and treatment.

Truly, truly, this had been a day with no end.

"How're you holding up, Alfred, Francis?" the Briton asked without taking his eyes off his men or the rocky path full of small sinkholes he had to cross to reach them.

"I'm fine, Artie." America resisted the nagging urge to ask his brother to stop acting like such a mother hen.

"Good. Almost there. Francis?"

No reply. England turned for a second to look back and make sure nothing had happened to the older nation.

"Ow, _shit!_"

The Briton's ankle rolled the moment he accidentally set foot in one of the sinkholes. His heart skipping a beat, he struggled to catch his balance but, unable to stand on his injured ankle, he tripped and fell headlong onto the jagged gravel.

"Matthew!"

Grunting, England pushed himself off his stomach and crawled over to Canada, who had fallen off his shoulders. His face was twisted a little in pain, but his purple eyes, once full of emotion and determination, were devoid of all animation, all expression—almost all _life_.

France raced down the path, careful not to step in any of the divots, and knelt down next to the two nations, his groaning muscles shaking a little beneath America's weight. He reached out to touch Canada's arm.

"_Non!_"

Even America was taken aback by the ferocity of his brother's scream.

Jarred though he was, France tried again to put a hand on his son's arm.

"Matth—"

"No!" Canada recoiled from the three other countries, trying to move his arms to push them away. When that failed, he kicked at France and yelled, "No, no, go away! Go _away_!"

When he saw even Canada's hoarse yells and violent kicks did not deter the Frenchman, England pushed him away and kept an arm around his shoulders while nodding to America. The younger nation crawled on his elbows toward his brother, who had stopped thrashing and now sat eerily still, his gaze fixed on the gravel.

"Mattie," whispered America once he was sitting beside the Canadian. "Mattie, calm down. You're fine."

Slowly, hesitantly, he put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Canada did not draw back or retaliate.

"There ya go."

The older brother drew in a sharp breath; then, he turned and looked at America with wide, curious eyes.

"…Al?"

"Yeah, Matt. It's me." America squeezed his brother's shoulder to reassure him. "It's Al."

"But…" Canada shook his head. "But I don't…"

"You don't what?"

"I don't _understand,_ I—"

One of the British men from the hospital pulled Canada away from his brother and laid him on a stretcher. Still shaking his head, he stared at the sky and tried to understand the strange words lingering in the air—_shock, gunshot wounds, lots of damage—_but couldn't.

He kept calling his brother's name even as the medics took him far from his family.

* * *

"Stop blaming yourself."

"You heard what he said!"

"Yes, but he was out of his mind, just like you were!"

France hid his face in his hands and let his shoulders go limp, as if his whole body had just given up.

"What kind of an excuse is that?"

England sighed and drew his knees to his chest. He gazed far off into the distance, up the cliffs and past the hills and toward the east—toward Germany.

"A perfectly valid one."

They had been waiting together for hours in the middle of the tent-studded field ever since the British had whisked the two younger nations away to the hospital. England had hidden his twisted ankle from them as he had explained the condition of both brothers, not wanting to divert any attention from Canada and America. The injury had begun to swell up something awful, but, despite the pain, his focus was a limited resource that France had control over for the moment.

"Not to him."

"Hm?" England looked back at the other nation, his brows furrowing.

"It doesn't matter to Matthew if I meant to do it."

"You don't know that, Francis. He wasn't thinking_—_"

"Yes, he _was_. He knows I meant to do it. I certainly know I did. I knew precisely what I was doing."

"_No, _you _didn't_. You think I blame you for threatening me in the church? You think any of us blame you for what happened after we left Dunkirk? You think _Matthew _of all people blames you, his Papa?"

France hung his head for a moment. When his eyes met England's again, they were full of tears.

"Yes."

The Briton paused. The slight summer wind played with the thick tent flaps, lifting them up one moment and dropping them the next. One of them, he knew, held the two boys while they waited for a surgeon to come from the camp near Gold Beach. They had been wounded and hurt, but now they were safe, if only for the moment.

He wished he could give that same sense of security to France.

"I'm sorry," said the Frenchman as England put an arm around his bruised shoulders and supported him.

"No. I'm sorry."

* * *

America woke up early in the morning.

Mumbling to himself, he threw his arm over his eyes, only to feel cold plastic pressed against the bridge of his nose. With a frown, the nation sat up and opened his eyes. A needle with a long thin tube attached had been stuck into the crook of his arm. Several thick strips of medical tape circling his frigid limb kept the array in place. America grimaced and started to think about pulling it out when someone chuckled softly.

"You've always hated needles more than I have."

"Huh?"

"Needles." Canada smiled a little at his confused brother. "When England made us get vaccines right after they became widely accepted, you screamed like a little girl."

"Did _not_." America crossed his arms (ignoring the needle as best he could) and pretended to frown. Deep down, he returned his brother's smile.

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did _too_."

"Did _not_." To prove his point, the younger brother picked up the flimsy pillow behind him and chucked it at Canada's head.

Bad move.

"Oh, Al, you should _not_ have done that."

"Why_—__oof_!"

Two pillows thumped against America's face harder than he thought pillows could hit and faster than he could think to defend himself.

"What the—" America stared at his brother's bandaged arms, pierced with multiple needles and serpentine tubes. "How the _hell_ did you pull that off?"

Without a word, Canada raised his legs. America continued to stare with his mouth open and his eyes wide; then, after a long moment, he burst out laughing.

"Holy shit, bro. Am I ever glad I'm not Italy or Germany or Japan right now."

"Because we are _definitely _fighting a war with pillows."

"Dude, you're terrifying with anything."

"Is that your way of acknowledging that I'm a good fighter, too?"

The nation struggled to think of a reply. When he looked at his brother, his eyes bloodshot, his body bandaged, his smile weak, he saw no hero or strong warrior. Canada's garbled and panicked screams from sometime in the near past yet somewhere far away rang in his mind, reminding him of the emotional marathon all of them had been running for much too long.

Had his brother been truly strong, none of this would have happened.

America loved Canada. No one could ever deny their intense brotherhood that drove them to protect each other no matter the cost—or, perhaps in the younger's case, because of the cost. That bond didn't excuse or dismiss the weakness the American saw in his brother's eyes. Of course the two would love each other regardless of their faults, but even so, the younger couldn't fight off the plaguing thought that curled around his heart and took root in his mind.

_Your brother is a coward._

"Yeah. Duh. I mean… _duh_."

Canada didn't appear to notice America's hesitation. If he had, he just shrugged it off. Teasing didn't bother him much anymore.

"Isn't it nice," he said, looking at the thin sheets wrapped around his battered body, "that Arthur had us come visit him here in England?"

"…What?"

"I said it was nice that Arthur had us come stay with him for a while with the war effort intensifying. I know I'm quiet, but your hearing isn't _that_ bad, Al."

"Uh… yeah, yeah, sure…" America ran a hand through his greasy hair and adjusted his glasses every few seconds. His left arm tingled from the cold, and he could have sworn he tasted salt in his mouth. At any rate, he could smell the saline dripping into his veins, a metallic, medicinal variant of familiar table salt. He watched a little trickle of blood try to slither back up the tube before the flow of saline forced it backwards.

"You just don't want to admit you like being around him."

"What? That's—Matt?"

Canada's face contorted as a sharp throbbing radiated from his shoulders down to his fingertips. He had been in terrible pain since the moment he had awakened but, thinking he could withstand it, had pushed it into the back of his mind. It had long since begun to escape the box in which he had tried to contain it. He just hadn't let it show until that moment.

"Ugh." He bit the insides of his cheeks, as if to fight back the pain. "It's nothing, just—ugh, _shit_."

"Here," said America after watching his brother for a moment. He snatched up the small syrette lying on the floor beside his cot and tossed it to Canada. "Morphine."

"You—expect—me to be able—to do—"

"Oh. Uh. Right." America dragged himself over on his elbows to the other nation's side. With experienced fingers, he broke the seal containing the needle with the small hooked wire inside the flexible plastic tube. Then, silently cussing at himself for his oh-so-_pathetic_ fear of needles, he found a spot on Canada's thigh where his uniform had been torn and stabbed the twinkling needle tip beneath his ashen, clammy skin. Squeezing the tube as though it contained something more innocent, such as toothpaste or cake frosting, he forced every last drop of the potent chemical into his brother's bloodstream.

_Fuck._ America blessed his unconsciousness for saving him from having to deal with the British medics jabbing sharp IV needles with their tiny catheters into his arms. That might have been worse than getting shot in the first place.

"That okay, Mattie?"

The Canadian leaned his head back, a droplet of sweat falling from his face to the ground like a tear. His forehead shone as he squeezed his eyes shut and gnashed his teeth. As much as his fingers trembled, he could not ball them into fists to relieve his pain.

"Gonna… be fine."

America frowned.

He really didn't believe it.

* * *

A few moments after Canada had fallen asleep from the morphine (_thank goodness, _thought America, who couldn't stand to watch his brother suffer anymore—neither for his sake nor for his own), England hobbled into the tent, his arms folded, though not grumpily, and his ankle smarting much less than yesterday.

"Hey, you," said America, pulling on one of the IV tubes. "You come to get rid of these?"

"Of course not. They're giving you medicine."

"They're giving me _saltwater_."

"What would you know?" The Briton smirked and sat beside America's cot after fussing over Canada for a minute or two. "You're just afraid of needles, that's all. The _United States of America_, afraid of an _injection_. It's quite funny when you think about it."

"Stop it." America's eyes narrowed behind his fogged glasses.

"Oh, all right." England couldn't help cracking a small smile all the same. "But it _is _hilarious—"

"I said _stop it_."

Now England's grin faded altogether and turned into a frown more of concern than of anger.

"Alfred, is everything all right?"

America feigned a childish pout. As long as he acted close to normal, the other nation wouldn't suspect anything, he figured.

"It's not all right when you make fun of me about _needles_."

The Englishman raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought we were going to drop the subject."

"No, you're going to stop making fun of me."

"Whatever." The older nation looked back at Canada; then, with a sigh, he returned his attention to America. "Really. How are you two holding up? Don't belittle anything."

"I'm fine." America shrugged and then quickly moved on to his brother's condition. "He's really confused, though. Said something about how he thought we were in England and you had invited us to come see you or help you or something. I think he has fuzzy memories of the beginning of the invasion but doesn't know what happened after that."

"That sounds correct. He started talking about Juno when I was carrying him. If nothing else, he knows the invasion was going to take place."

_It would be nice if we could just all forget about what happened on our way here, wouldn't it…?_

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Alfred." The Briton leaned over and tried to force the younger nation to lie down, but he resisted. "I told you not to belittle anything. Don't lie to me. Something's wrong."

America swatted England's hands away from his shoulders. "I'm tired. All the morphine they're giving me, I guess."

"Morphine? It's that bad?"

"I wouldn't know. I had to give some to Canada earlier, though. He's pretty beat up."

"No kidding."

"Artie?"

"What?" The older nation perked up a little and studied the younger's face, searching his eyes for _something_, though he knew not quite what.

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Ah. Yes, yes, of course. Anything in mind?"

"The war." America lay down, his head sinking into the soft pillow as he stared at the vaulted ceiling of the tent, his gaze avoiding England's. "As far as I know, we kicked some serious butt yesterday, so we can call Neptune a success. What now? We've basically secured ourselves in France, and we're going to get ahold of the whole country once I meet up with General Eisenhower. But—really, Arthur, where is it going to go from here?"

"Aren't you just a barrel of laughs today." England raised his hand to his mouth, covering his lips with a few spread fingers as he thought. He didn't want to tell the other nation how far short of their goals they had actually fallen yesterday. "It's hard to tell, Alfred. Obviously, we want control of France to move into Germany and end this whole damn mess. But really, there are so many different factors."

The Briton removed his fingers from his face and began counting off on them.

"First off, Russia is putting up quite the fight against the Germans in the east, so I'm not too worried about fighting with France here. Second, you have Italy. Not much to worry about, hardly a threat, but the chaos he's experiencing now is worth noting. Third, there's Japan. He's my biggest concern, aside from a German counterattack. Of course, then you have to stop thinking about them and start worrying about us, too. We _all _have to be ready to continue the fight no matter where it leads from here."

America hardly gave his fellow nation time to finish his last sentence before saying, "I'm ready. I could fight this _second_."

England shook his head. "You need to rest now. Focus on that. You two had the worst of it yesterday. That's nothing to be taken lightly or written off."

"I said I'm fine. I'll be ready to go west with Eisenhower in just a few days."

"We'll see. Even if you are, what if you haven't given yourself enough time to heal and receive a worse injury there? Hm? What do you plan to do, then?"

Quite certain he had argued his point, England crossed his arms again.

"Shut up, Artie."

"That's what you always say when I'm right and you're too stubborn to admit it."

_No, _thought America, _that's what I say when you keep hitting a nerve and _you're _too stubborn to say so._

* * *

France leaned against a cool slab of rock on the hillside and watched the morning sun climb its way past the horizon. He thought he might fall asleep, given that he hadn't been able to close his eyes for even a moment that night. He remembered too much. If the whole of memory was a book from which he had to give an account of himself, each line written about the previous afternoon damned him a thousand times over. The nation could practically feel the fires of Hell surrounding his heart.

Let them burn.

Maybe he could have found it in himself to forgive. Somewhere in his heart, France could still discover self-mercy. He only feared that Canada and England and America had all lost their ability to reconcile with him. In any case, they certainly couldn't _forget_. Canada himself had demonstrated that with actions more eloquent and biting than mere words.

The nation pulled one knee up to his chest and, resting his elbow on it, placed his chin in his hand. He knew love brought about a tying together of fates into an intricate web. Such was the elegant design of life. He and his son had always been linked like one of China's finger puzzles. If someone tried to pull them apart, they only drew closer together and became stronger. The only way to break them apart was to pit them against each other, to introduce friction and break the web.

France had done just that.

Of course, he forced himself to remember, not all of yesterday had been bad. Finally, finally, after so long, the nation had felt the warmth of hope smiling in his heart once more. He knew the war had begun its final months. His family had found him, and now they would fight together. He would liberate his capital, free his people. They stirred within his bones even now, ready to throw off the yoke that balanced domination and defeat on their shoulders. Soon, he told himself, soon. His time to die had come; now in its place came his time to live. And it would last for as long as he could imagine.

Jeanne had promised.

And he had carried on her promise to someone else.

_"It's done. Germany has taken Belgium and the Netherlands—and he's coming for me next."_

_"We'll never let that happen to you, Papa. We'll beat him back like we did at the Miracle of the Marne."_

_"We'll try, Canada. We'll try."_

_"How can you say that? We'll do more than just try. We'll _win._"_

_"Oh, mon trésor." France embraced his son. What a man he had become; what a country he would be. "I'm not invincible."_

_"France will never fall. I won't let it happen. I won't sit back and watch them break you. What about Poland, Papa? He—I—this can't happen. Not to you."_

_"Poland." The older nation stepped back and put his hands on the younger's shoulders. He marveled that they stood the same height and could look each other in the eye as equal nations, as equal men. "You know Poland used to be a great kingdom. He and Lithuania ruled much of eastern Europe. Then everything went wrong. It took him so long to regain his freedom, and now he's lost it once more._

_"But," said France with a small smile, "that's not the end of the story. Poland is silly and childish, but no one ever defeats him. No one beats Poland forever. He always rises again."_

_"And everything turns out all right in the end?"_

_"Pr__é_cis_é_ment. Everything turns out all right in the end. Mon trésor, I may fall like Poland, but if I do, I will fight like him. I need you to do the same. Be brave. Don't lose your courage. No matter what happens to us."

_"Papa?" Canada clapped his hand over one of France's still on his shoulders. "I swear. We'll have faith in each other. No matter what happens."_

* * *

Later that evening, after meeting with some of his leaders stationed at Sword and Gold, England visited Canada.

"Hey," he said as he walked through the entrance of the tent, his ankle having healed, and knelt by the other nation. "Have you been asleep all day?"

"I think so," said Canada, sitting up with England's help. "What time is it?"

"Just after eight at night."

"Mm, yeah, I was out the whole day. That morphine is powerful stuff."

"Yes, you've got that right. Is it working for the pain, too? Are you feeling better now?"

Canada nodded. England relaxed slightly.

"I'd take you outside if I could, the weather's so nice. It must be hard being shut up in here."

"No, no, it's not bad. I've got Al. I think we had a pillow fight this morning before I fell asleep. He can be loud, but he's good company. He's a good brother."

"And of course you don't dare tell him this while he's awake," said England, tilting his head toward America's sleeping form on the other side of the tent. The younger nation laughed.

"Oh, he's more aware about these things than we give him credit for. I think he knows whether I tell him or not."

"Perhaps." The Briton wondered if he should tell Canada about his suspicions regarding his brother but decided not to. No sense in burdening him further with more cares and concerns, considering what he knew he had to do now. "May I ask you a strange question, Matthew?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

"Where are we now?"

Canada paused. He hadn't expected such a simple question; by "strange," he'd thought the Englishman had meant "complicated."

"We're in your land, of course. In England."

_America was right, after all._

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you told Al and me to come here for something. You needed help. Besides, even if I've been out for a while, I know we're still in England or somewhere in the United Kingdom because all these soldiers sound British."

England nodded slowly. Canada looked at his hands.

"I'm wrong, aren't I?"

"Matthew, I…"

"It's okay." The younger nation tried to pull the blanket tighter around himself, but with his arms still sore and useless, England had to help him. As the older nation wrapped the thin covers around his chest and let him lie down again, Canada continued, "I get the feeling a lot has happened lately that I don't know about—and maybe that I don't want to know about. You can't hide it from me forever, Arthur. Where are we really?"

"All right." England put his hand on the ground near Canada's, ready to grab it and calm him if need be. "We're… in France now."

"…France?" Canada frowned. "What are we doing in France?"

"Do you remember Neptune and Overlord?"

"Yeah. Wait. I know we were going to proceed with them soon. Did we finally?"

"Yes. We began Neptune yesterday. You came ashore on Juno. Al was at Omaha, and I took Gold and Sword. Does any of that sound familiar?"

Canada nodded. "Now that you mention it, everything is a lot clearer. You and I met up in one of the small coastal towns, right? Bernières, I think? The one with the church?"

"That's right. Then, Alfred joined us." England swallowed. "Do you remember what happened after that?"

"No. I can remember the three of us together just outside the city. Al had been shot, and we knew we had to help him. That's where it all ends."

"I see."

"What?" Canada didn't like the look the other nation was giving him. England had the last piece of the puzzle, and he wasn't about to hand it over. "What happened then? How did I get here? When did I get shot? Who shot me?"

"Matthew—"

"I _have_ to know, Arthur! Please!"

"Matthew." England gently touched one of his tube-wound, gauze-bound arms. "I can't tell you. Or, rather, _I_ can't tell you. But someone else can. You'll have to wait for him."

"…How long?" Canada's words came out in a whisper.

"I don't know. It's hard to say. It's even more difficult for him to understand what happened. He'll come around, though. I know it. Have faith in him."

The younger nation remembered someone telling him something very similar at one point in his life, although he couldn't quite remember who. All he knew was that he no longer felt quite as lost or nearly as alone.

"Okay." He let England put another hand on his arm. "I will."

The Briton ruffled his hair, as if Canada were a child again.

"That's my boy."

He waited until the younger nation had fallen asleep; then, in the corner of the tent, he found the magic-infused blanket he had made for the Canadian when he was little. He draped it over his sleeping form, pulled it up to his chin, and pushed a few strands of matted wavy hair out of his face.

"Goodnight, Matthew."

With that, England stood up and walked outside into the cool night air.

On the other side of the tent, America opened his eyes and peered around to make sure no one remained inside.

He had heard everything.

And it made him pull his blankets over his head and curl into a ball.

* * *

Two days passed in sleep, nearby fighting, and endless meetings with generals. After sleeping away most of the first day, America had convinced the medics and England that yes, _of course_ he had indeed healed enough to go meet with General Eisenhower. In reality, he would have gone had he not been able to make them see reason, but he didn't bring that up.

Once the two Americans had left to discuss the later stages of Operation Overlord, England took France to see Canada. The moment the Frenchman had seen the Briton coming to speak to him, he knew what he had to do. The younger nation was a little surprised when the older didn't protest or resist, as he had expected him to do. He had merely smiled sadly and nodded.

It was enough to make England want to throw his arms around him. Instead, he settled for one arm around his shoulders.

"Remember what I said." England paused in front of the tent.

"I will."

_"He doesn't blame you, Francis. He wasn't angry. When he realized what had happened, he begged me to take him along to find and rescue you. He would have risked anything to bring his father back."_

Somehow, for their sakes, France not only had to remember England's words but make himself believe them, too.

"Matthew?" England lifted the tent flap. "You awake?"

Canada rubbed his face with one hand as France and England approached his bedside. While the Briton inwardly blessed Canada's nationhood for easing and speeding his recovery, France's heart plummeted into his stomach at the sight of his son in such weakness and pain. The younger nation could barely _move_ from what he had done to him.

_Yes, that's right. It's your fault, you know_.

"…Papa?"

France forced himself not to take a step backwards as the Canadian struggled to sit up as quickly as he could and stared at him. If only he had some way to know he wouldn't hurt him again.

_Have faith._

"You're here? You're—ow!"

"Slow down," said England as he supported the other nation, who had pulled some of the tubes out of place in his urgent haste to sit up.

Canada trembled a little, not from the pain because of the bullet wounds in his arms and the disturbed needles in his veins but from the sight of his father standing nearby. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen him, and certainly not the last time he had seen him whole and safe. Still, although joy should have overwhelmed him, something held back its tide, a wall containing a beautiful sea.

He knew not where it came from nor why it bothered him so much, but he felt fear.

"Yes," said France after a moment. He knelt down beside England at his son's side. "I'm here."

"But… how? What happened? It's been so long."

"Remember?" England kept a steady hand on Canada's back. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath upon feeling his body shiver beneath his fingers. "The objective of Neptune was to secure a foothold in France. We all planned to meet up after we took our beaches and find Francis. You told me we were in Bernières together. That's when we found him."

"Oh. That's right." The younger nation nodded. "I know what you're talking about."

He turned to France then, who, with slow, clear movements, put a hand on his son's arm. Canada willed himself to stop shaking.

"It has been a while, yes." France tried to think of something more to say. England remained silent, letting everything unfold as it willed. "I'm sorry we had to meet again like this."

"N-No, don't be sorry!" The Canadian tried to laugh. The sound came out more like a nervous giggle. Why, oh _why_ did he feel like this, and why couldn't he regain control of himself? "It's—It's fine. I'm just glad to see you again. I guess we have a lot to talk about?"

"That you do." England finally spoke up, patting Canada's back before standing. "I, on the other hand, need to go find Alfred. He said he'd be back a while ago from his meeting with Eisenhower. I just _bet_ he's gotten himself into some sort of trouble. Can't let that happen, you know."

He placed a hand on France's shoulder for a moment before he left with the words, "Look after each other."

Canada couldn't help but find England's farewell strange. France, on the other hand, understood it all too well.

He had to do this.

And do it properly.

"Are you okay?"

France looked up from the ground and dared for the first time to meet Canada's concerned eyes that barely concealed his internal flicker of fear.

"Don't worry about me. What about you? Are _you_ all right, _mon trésor?_"

It took Canada only a moment after hearing his beloved nickname to break down in tears.

"I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't do this. I don't know what's wrong with me, but—"

"Sh." France removed his gloves and, holding his son's face in his calloused hands, wiped away each of his tears as they slipped down his cheeks. "Didn't I always use to tell you not to apologize for your feelings?"

Canada swallowed, the lump in his throat aching and nodded.

"Then I want you to tell me what's wrong."

"I just _missed_ you."

"I missed you, too. So much. But there's more than that, isn't there?"

"Papa, I can't tell you—"

"Yes, you can. I need you to. Matthew, _please_."

France too wanted to cry as he begged his son to reveal something he clearly had trouble admitting to both of them. He hated all of this.

Yet he knew this was their only choice. The only way to light was through darkness; the only route to forgiveness traveled through painful memories.

They had to awaken their hurt to destroy it altogether and set everything aright.

"I'm scared, Papa. I don't know why. Arthur told me that something had happened, that someone had hurt me, but I didn't remember any of it. When I tried to get him to tell me, he said he couldn't, but someone else could." Canada steeled his nerves. He didn't care if he wanted to know. He _had_ to. "Something happened when we found you. And whatever it is makes me afraid. Papa. Tell me. What happened in Bernières?"

His heart pounding and his hands shaking, France hugged his son and pressed him close to his chest.

"Matthew, _mon p'tit, mon trésor,_ I shot you. And I meant to do it."

* * *

England finally exhaled again when he caught sight of America trudging into the field hospital after nearly half an hour of searching for him.

"Alfred!" he called, hurrying up to the American from behind.

The younger nation jumped.

"What—dude, Arthur, don't _do _that."

"Sorry," said England with a shrug. "I had to get your attention somehow."

"Can you leave me alone? I'm tired."

"No, and anyway, you can't go back for a while. Francis and Matthew are talking right now. I—well, I expect they'll need quite some time by themselves."

"Then I'll sleep somewhere else. Out here works."

England snorted as America lay down on the ground and threw his arm over his eyes.

"'Night, Artie."

The older nation just sat down next to him, to America's annoyance.

"And you thought that'd actually work," said the Briton, smiling in spite of himself. "Sorry, but you won't be getting rid of me that easily. We have our own things to talk about."

"If you mean battle plans, I already went over those with General Eisenhower."

"I'm sure you did, and in great depth, too. No, it's something else, but I need you to pay just as much attention."

"What else could you possibly want to talk to me about? Oh, I bet you want to yell at me or something. What'd I do this time?"

"I'm not going to yell at you."

At this, America took his arm away from his face and raised an eyebrow at England. He didn't exactly trust him not to get angry, but his persistence intrigued him, if nothing else.

"Really, then." He sat up beside the other nation. "Doesn't mean I'll give you an answer if you ask me anything."

"Fine." England hadn't expected to get anything more out of America. Confronting him about anything was never easy. "But I do want to know—what's eating you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Alfred. Something's been wrong with you ever since you entered the war. I've always noticed it, but it's particularly bad now. I don't want you to be in pain. Whatever it is, we can fix it."

"No. You can't."

"Maybe _I _can't, but we can together."

"No."

"That's not an answer."

"What's the point of giving you an answer if you can't do anything with it?"

"Because I can!"

America opened his mouth to retort, but England held up his hand and glared at him so fiercely that the younger nation crammed his words back down his throat.

"No. Don't say anything. You'll just make it all up. Alfred, look at Francis and Matthew. Look at what's happening to all of us. Everyone's falling apart, but damn it all, I've been doing everything I can to hold us together, and _fuck anyone_ who thinks they can stop me."

The Briton stopped. Upon seeing his brother's shocked, hurt face, he realized he had been clenching his hand into a fist.

"I thought you said you weren't gonna yell at me."

Slowly, England relaxed his fingers and let his hand drop to his side.

"…I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Alfie."

"It's okay." America moved closer to the other nation. "You didn't mean to."

"I guess not. It kind of built itself up, just like that." England slouched a little, relaxing his usually proper posture. "I don't like any of this."

"None of us do."

"That's why we have to work through it. That's why I asked you what was wrong. It's not just hurting you, Alfie. It's hurting all of us."

"We're pretty good at that, huh?"

England shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. We weren't the best about being civil to each other when you two were little. To this day, I feel terrible about that. I always try to make up for it. And I think the fact that we're also 'pretty good' at putting ourselves back together helps."

He looked at his brother.

"There's no one out there who can help you like we can, Alfred. But we can't help you if we don't know what we're trying to fix."

"Well…" America sighed. "I think helping a coward is pretty hard even for you guys. And good luck going back in time and putting Pearl Harbor back together."

* * *

"…Papa? It was you?"

"_Oui_." France's voice shook as he hung his head against his son's collarbone. "I shot you at Bernières."

"But… why?"

"I don't remember exactly when it happened, but at some point after Germany took over me and my people, I just lost my mind. I snapped. One moment, I was myself. The next, I wasn't. I don't even remember all of what happened during that time. One thing is clear, though. When I saw the three of you gathered together in front of the house I was hiding in… Something commanded me to kill you. And I obeyed it."

As France spoke, Canada's memories came rushing back. He saw himself standing beside America and England, laughing at their banter and full of joy that the three of them were about to find their fourth family member. Then, he caught a glimpse of the spray of bullets as they pierced the windows of the house and lodged themselves in his arms. He heard England yell his name. He saw France run. He smelled the smoke in the air and the scent of decay and he tasted blood in his mouth and he saw himself then, putting his hand over his heart and realizing what had happened and—

"I loved you too much for whatever drove me insane. No, not quite insane. I was sane enough that it was still my fault. I did this to you, Matthew. _I _did this to _you_."

France fell silent, the words lingering in both their ears.

Canada shivered.

He knew it all now. The quiet fear that had festered in his heart exploded. It threatened to consume them both, to rip them apart and leave nothing in its wake.

But he would not let that happen.

_"No, Arthur, don't!"_

_"It's Papa."_

_"I have to go after him! I can't just _sit here_ and watch this happen to him!"_

And watch it happen to him.

Canada had never blamed France at all. From the moment he had seen him fleeing, he had known it hadn't been his father's fault. Something had forced him to pull the trigger, had destroyed his will and made him capitulate. Of course he had been afraid. His fear had nearly strangled the life and love out of him. No one could have handled the confusion and shock following an attack from someone he loved so much.

No one but Canada now.

"You told me to have faith in you," he said. "And so I did. I still do. Papa, it wasn't your fault, and even if it was, I still forgive you."

"But—"

"I was in shock. I couldn't process what had happened or why. That doesn't mean I was angry or wanted to hurt you in return. And even if I had felt like that—I'd still have to forgive you. I couldn't live as your enemy."

"Oh, Matthew."

"'Be brave. Don't lose your courage. No matter what happens to us.' That's right. You told me that. And I promised to follow through. No matter what."

France drew back to look at his son's face. Canada smiled at him, new tears in his eyes.

"_Je t'aime, Papa_."

That did it.

The Frenchman threw his arms around the Canadian and, burying his face in his shoulder, sobbed. Father and son held each other, two victims who had found the courage, the strength, to fight back for each other's sake against the horrors they had experienced. From the darkness into the light they had emerged, stronger and closer than before. Even their pain and their wounds could be blessings, and thus they were for the two nations who, no matter what, would always rise again.

* * *

"I don't understand."

"I meant what I said. I'm pathetic. And you can't change what happened at Pearl Harbor."

"Well, you got one thing right. That's a start." England tilted his head to the side for a moment. "And I didn't mean that you're pathetic. What'd make you think such a thing?"

"Nothing."

"_Alfred_."

"You don't want to hear any of this."

"You know that's not true." The Briton dropped his voice to a murmur. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise. I'm—well, I'm worried about you. Nothing you say is going to scare me off, if that's what you're afraid of."

America began plucking tiny bits of dewy green grass and peeling the little strands in half. They fell apart easily in his hands, he thought, like so many other things. Including himself.

"You remember how I reacted after Japan attacked Hawaii?"

England nodded. He didn't like to remember, but he didn't say so. Memories of the other nation staring wide-eyed in shock for _days_ after the attack, even as he officially entered the war, didn't exactly sit well with him.

"And you remember how the Civil War ended?"

Again, England had to nod, though he preferred not to think about the horrific state in which he had found America after the war.

"What about the Depression? Black Tuesday? All those problems I caused for everyone else?"

"You weren't entirely to blame—"

"Does it matter?" America looked up from his grass-stained hands. "Who cares if it was my fault? All that matters is that I didn't stop any of those things from happening."

"Can I just say something?" When the younger nation shrugged, the older paused for a moment to think, then continued, "Despite what you may think, despite what others tell you, you are _not_ all-powerful. You are not perfect. You will never be able to stop bad things from happening. Remember that."

"Yeah, but…" America made a face. "That's not my point."

"Okay, then, move on to that next."

"You make it sound easy."

England laughed. "It's not. That just means it's worth doing."

"If you say so." He struggled to put his thoughts into words that his brother would understand and wouldn't make him seem quite as silly. "You don't know this, but after Pearl Harbor, I, well, kinda locked myself in a room and cried for four hours."

"Sounds pretty normal to me."

"No. You don't get it. I did that when my people and my leaders needed me most. When we were making the decision to go to war." America's voice rose a little. "Oh, and you know what's more, Artie? You all went to war before I did. Even Mattie. I let all of you jump into this mess without following to help, to save you when you were in trouble. I just sat around and broke down while you were fighting important battles."

He balled his hand into a fist and hit the ground.

"I'm pathetic, Arthur. Kiku bombed a harbor and I acted as if it was the end of the world. My people started killing each other and I freaked out and couldn't do anything. It makes me _laugh_ when people say I'm strong. You know why? Because no one who's all that powerful would let things get to him so much."

America was starting to hit the ground again when England grabbed his wrist and held it tight.

"Alfred, Alfred." The Briton's heart contracted sharply. "When I said you were right about one thing, I meant we couldn't stop Pearl Harbor. It was a surprise attack; anyone would have been unprepared for it. You're selling yourself _very _short if you think you're pathetic or cowardly."

"Prove it."

"Matthew." England pointed to the tent farthest away from them, in which the other two nations sat talking. He hoped so, at least. "He'll tell you all day long he doesn't like fighting, but throw him into a battle and he's every bit as dangerous as you are. He's one _hell _of a soldier. But you saw how he reacted to Francis shooting him. You saw how badly it hurt him and how out of his mind he went at first."

"Exactly."

"Exactly what?"

America lifted his free hand and moved it back and forth in an attempt to find something to say. He wasn't sure what England was trying to tell him.

"That's what I mean. I looked at him then and thought he… well…"

"You thought he was like you. You saw him the way you see yourself."

"Yeah, yeah, basically."

"Well, at least we know you're not a hypocrite in that respect. No, Alfred, you and Matthew are both incredibly strong, and I'll tell you why: reacting to the things that happen to you is not weak." England looked around to make sure no one was nearby before he said more. "We're nations. That makes us different from our people. But we're somewhat human, too. It's primarily that piece of humanity in us that reacts so violently when bad things happen. America, Alfred, it's not your fault that things happen that you can't understand."

"But—"

"No. Let me finish. You'd be weak if you never moved on and never tried to make things better. Look at Matthew. He and Francis are going to get through this. And you? You got back on your feet after Pearl Harbor and entered the war. After us, yes, but you're winning it for us. Not entirely, I mean. But we couldn't do a lot of this without your help."

The Briton turned to face the warm midday sun. Hope had come again. The blackness had disappeared once he had saved France, but the whiteness that had taken its place had been an overwhelming, empty canvas on which either a tragedy or a comedy could have been painted. The true terror of the past few days was watching with bated breath to see which the great painter that was fate would create.

It had turned out to be a beautiful world after all, the future awaiting them.

"Courage can be loud. That's what you usually think of, Alfred, because that's what you come from. The Declaration of Independence, your sudden explosion of self-growth, critical battles you've won—that's greatness and glory. To you, it's courage. But think of your brother. He's quiet. No one thinks he's more than an invisible pacifist. Yet he lost his sight in the Great War and returned to battle the next day. He was taken away and given to me, but he woke up the next morning and acted as if he had been mine all along. _His own father_ shot him, and, as anyone would, he broke down. He didn't mope and sit around pitying himself, though. He felt pain, but feeling pain when someone hurts you isn't wrong."

England looked back at America, who was staring at the ground with an unreadable expression. He squeezed his wrist to comfort him.

"Strength can be loud—but it can also be quiet."

The older nation fell silent, letting his words penetrate the younger's heart. He had no more to say. He only had hope to convince him that America would accept his reassurance.

And, once the American lifted his face and looked at him, he had his brother's smile, too.

* * *

The four of them changed that day in ways they could never undo. Somehow, nevertheless, they stayed the same. They had come to love in different ways, but, even as they probed the limits of their loyalty to and faith in each other, that love had remained the center of a wheel that continued to turn in different directions according to the whim of fate. That much stayed constant, Canada thought as France carried him from the tent to meet America and England at the edge of the hospital by the foot of the hill.

They didn't forget the things they had done to each other. Sometimes, they recalled the hurts they had inflicted and the sufferings they had endured at each other's hands. Even when those memories overwhelmed them and darkness seemed the story of their lives, France realized while he set Canada on his feet and kept his arm around his back to steady him, forgiveness conquered all fear and assured every doubt.

It was all right to hurt when someone hurt them, intentionally or accidentally. Catharsis didn't come without a cost, without something to purge in the first place. There was no fault in that. Healing when they needed to recover and quietly getting out of bed in the morning no matter what showed that they were brave, that they were _courageous_. America took the treasure of England's words and buried it in his heart where he could find it again when he needed to—the way he did now as he threw his arms around Canada and France, holding them close.

This was their family. They protected it through war and disaster, despite quarrels and misunderstandings, against those who would destroy it. They faced struggles and difficult times, but they always rose again no matter what, ever stronger than before. And, England knew as he stood behind America and enveloped the other three nations in a warm, strong embrace, that darkness truly reminded him of the light.

White couldn't be white without black.

_"Poverty stole your golden shoes. / It didn't steal your laughter. / And heartache came to visit me, / But I knew it wasn't ever after. / We will fight, not out of spite, / For someone must stand up for what's right. / 'Cause where there's a man who has no voice, / There ours shall go singing." ("Hands," Jewel)_

* * *

Oh, look, no historical notes this time. Nothing that begs explanation anyway.

With regard to translations, the "Fran" half of Canada's Franglais is just babbling, but _je ne peux pas_ = I can't and _je t'en supplie_ = I beg you.

The reason they all used each other's human names pretty much throughout these two fics was because I have this idea that that's how they refer to each other when they're around humans and need to keep their identities particularly secret. I haven't really done this before, so it was hard to keep from slipping up. x3

**"Colorless"** is coming up next. I wanted it to be a slightly angsty theme with France and Canada, but since I kinda did that here, I'll probably move it to a different theme and figure something else out for this next one.


	20. Colorless

**Prompt: **Colorless

**Characters:** America, Canada

**Notes: **Urghhhhh. Guys, I'm so sorry that this is late and that it sucks and is short and makes no sense. I'll spare you the details, but I'm going through some stuff right now that makes writing positively _excruciating_. Even this little drabble took so, so much effort. I hope you all still like it!

* * *

"Well, here we are. X marks the spot, I guess."

Canada stared at the road and raised an eyebrow at his brother's joke, if he could call it that. A mid-autumn Texas breeze cooled his sweaty neck and blew his wavy hair into his face, where the strands stuck for a few moments before he pushed them back behind his ears. The sight of the cars—all American makes, of course—speeding by on the road and under the stone bridge without care for the tourists jumping into the road to take pictures or even for the X itself made his stomach turn. As he tried to drown out the loud calls and noisy demonstrations of the alternate historians (_not conspiracy theorists, that's not a nice thing to call them, _he reminded himself) talking to a crowd of camera-laden people a short way up the hill on the leaf-dusted path, Canada looked back at the other nation, who laughed in a way that sounded more like coughing.

"And there's the super-famous grassy knoll." The American pointed at a small section of the hill beside the cracked concrete steps leading onto the sidewalk a few feet from the X. Canada waited for him to say more, which took a few moments of chuckling in a voice that was trying too hard. "That's where all the people were. Lots and lots of them. You—you know what Mrs. Connolly said? When we were in the car?"

"'Mr. President, you can't say that Dallas doesn't love you'?"

"Yeah. Exactly." America shoved his hands into the front pockets of his dark blue jeans and stared at his scuffed tennis shoes. "That's exactly what she said."

The older of the two brothers shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand and watched the trickling water flow from the fountain on Dealey Plaza across the street by the adjacent field. Dallas was a strange city, he thought. Just a short way up the road, trash littered the stained brick streets, used napkins and crushed cups from the McDonald's at the corner of the station, tickets from all of the major museums in the historic district and torn pieces of the Dallas Morning News. Everything smelled of dust and dirt and train tracks and the overflowing crowds that sat on the cold steel benches as they waited for the buses to pass by. Here, everything looked like a little piece of Europe that Texas had decided to import—and on a whim, given how much the elegant federal buildings and marble arches contrasted with the loud-and-proud downtown big-city architecture.

When Canada had first entered the square—if it could be called a square, really; in fact, it was just a small area at the convergence of two streets in downtown Dallas where a president of the United States of America happened to get shot fifty years ago—he had assumed the special style of the buildings had been chosen deliberately to designate this as a great place of history, as a place to honor President Kennedy. Such a major part of America's story needed some sort of great memorial, after all, something to distinguish it from the rest of the sprawling city. But there was nothing aside from the plaza, which didn't even have a sign, and the small white X in the middle of the road. Someone could walk down the sidewalk or drive past the street and not even realize what any of it meant.

_I bet people stumble upon this place on accident all the time_, Canada thought with a small grimace. He glanced at his brother, who was still staring at the ground, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. _I wonder… how he feels about that_.

All of a sudden, America turned to face the other nation and pointed at a tall terra-cotta building across the intersection.

"There it is—the Texas Book Depository." He swallowed. "'S where they say Oswald shot him. Right up there on the sixth floor, out that window. That one right there."

Canada squinted and stared at one of the square windows that was reflecting just a bit too much of the bright sunlight, as if the sky itself were glaring at and condemning that blood-stained scene of a crime that had shaken the American people down to their core like an emotional earthquake, a drowning tsunami of horror. Lee Harvey Oswald. A man no more than five years older than himself (going by his human age, anyway). A man who had killed a charismatic, popular, intelligent, smooth-talking, naive, kindhearted, inexperienced young president—no, not a president, just a _human being_. Shot and killed him. Sent a bullet ricocheting through his brain and through the fabric of history to make ripples in time that hit people near and far, shock waves felt across the seas.

They had just been people. Just human beings going about their business. Normal men who, yes, did unusual things and led abnormal lives, but still men. They had both been full of life and breath and humanity, until one bullet took it all away and left them cold and dead and ashen, without even a hint of color.

America hated nothing more.

"I was _there_, Mattie." The nation clenched his hands into fists. "I was there right beside them in the car. I was sitting there making jokes with him one second and the next I had blood all over my face and Jackie was screaming and my people went running like crazy—"

Canada put a hand on his brother's shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Then, his blue eyes fierce and wide with the ache of memory, America walked into the middle of the street, ignoring the oncoming cars, and stood on top of the X.

"I was right here. _Right fucking here_."

"Al, come back, you don't have to—"

"I was there with them." A line of cars stretching past the nearby intersection had piled up, the drivers all honking and shouting out their windows at the nation, but he didn't lift his head or move. "And I didn't stop any of it."

"Alfred—"

"Hey, Matt. Where were you on November 22, 1963?" America grinned. "'Cause I was in _Hell._"

Canada didn't care that every single person in the square was staring at them. He hardly noticed the sudden stillness that had fallen over the sidewalk and the hill, a smothering quietness punctuated only by the sharp honks from the cars on the traffic-clogged street. He simply kept walking all the way into the middle of the road to stand by his brother's side and throw his arms around him.

"C'mon, Al," he whispered into his brother's ear. "You don't have to do this."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"No. You don't." The Canadian kept one strong arm around his brother's broad shoulders and carefully guided him back onto the sidewalk, surprised that America didn't resist. All the fight had gone out of him all of a sudden, as if someone had struck him a blow that knocked him out completely.

And so someone might have, his heart had twisted into such a convoluted knot.

"Alfred." Canada's sympathetic gaze met his brother's exhausted blue eyes that stared at a blood-chilling scene from so many years ago. The palace-like buildings and the crowd and the X all disappeared from his sight as he squeezed his brother's shoulder. A chasm of memory separated them, but the older nation didn't care. He'd walk across the nothingness with his eyes closed to reach his brother and pull him to an island of safety far, far away from this place and the chaos in his mind.

"Let's go, Al." He turned his back on the knoll and the X, and, moving at the same slow pace as his brother, walked away. The weight of memory had gotten too heavy for America; now it fell to Canada to carry his burden in his place. So he did, back to the dingy station and onto the empty train and out of the city with all its tall buildings obscuring the secret it held and hid in the open where no one would ever find it.

"Let's go home."

* * *

Historical Notes:

Clearly, this is about the assassination of U.S. president John F. Kennedy, which occurred in Dallas, TX on November 22, 1963. It's not entirely clear what happened - in fact, some polls have shown that up to 80 percent of Americans believe in some sort of cover-up or conspiracy - but the primary claim now is that 24-year-old Lee Harvey Oswald shot the president from the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository as he was riding in an open car and greeting the crowds along the streets. I've heard some stories from teachers and older relative about the impact on the American people. The question, "Where were you on November 22, 1963?" is a very loaded question full of thousands of stories and emotions and bad memories, to be honest. The assassination really rocked the nation.

As I've actually been to the assassination site several times, I tried to render it as accurately as I could. It really just is kind of right there in the middle of a street - no big sign or anything. You could drive past without knowing it. In fact, when I first went there, I found it by accident while wandering around downtown Dallas. It's kinda depressing.

**"Friends" **is next, but I don't know what it'll be about or when I'll write it. Whenever I'm feeling up to it, I guess.


End file.
